


A Collection of Even & Isak's First Kiss AU Shorts

by fandomlimb



Category: SKAM (Norway), SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys Kissing, Did I Mention There Will Be Kissing, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlimb/pseuds/fandomlimb
Summary: Yes yes we all know that the pool kiss will go down in history as the most iconic first kiss of all time. BUT I also love thinking about all the possible Evak kisses and so here will be a bunch of short AUs about what could have been if the first kiss had gone down differently. Each chapter will be a different short AU, POV noted in chapter title.





	1. The Uninterrupted Kitchen Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

  
_In this world, their first kiss is in the kitchen after the kosegruppa pregame_

* * *

 

“But…she’s sweet…”

I look up. Regret looking up. Look back down.

“…Sonja.”

Why did I just say her name that way, like I’m resigned, so over it, trying to prove to him that talking about her doesn’t cost me anything? I know I'm a terrible liar.

His body moves and swallows the space between us. I am breathing his alcohol/cigarettes/laundry detergent/men's shampoo smell and I feel him looking at me but I can’t look up because the kitchen tiles are much safer to look at than his eyes. A bit of his hair has broken free from that goofy 80s neon yellow headband that he still manages to look sexy in ( _how?_ ) and I can feel one tiny strand of his hair touching mine. I want my hands on his body but I can’t move, I’ve never moved before in my life.

His body is doing something again. He’s leaning in, leaning down.

One inch, then half an inch, and then we are so close. He wets his lips and I wish I knew how to stop this betrayal going on in inside me because all I want is to pull him against me but I am rooted, stuck, stock-still.

Can’t move, can’t breathe. Is he is waiting for me to do something?

Then: his lips are on my lips.

And I don’t know what the hell changes because now my hands are like enchanted hands, how did they know how badly for weeks now I’ve wanted to grasp his hair right at the base of his neck and pull our bodies close together and press them into the small of his back?

Hands in my hair. Hands on my jaw and neck. Our teeth collide and I am breathing into his breath and my body catapults into outer space.

He stops moving his mouth and looks at me and smiles.

I’m smiling back.

I’m thinking _how crazy is it that humans have actually walked on the Moon._ I’m thinking _kiss me again and never stop kissing me._

He’s still looking at me.

“Even,” I say. And take one giant leap forward.

 


	2. The Drunken Halloween Party Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world, they go to the Halloween party with Emma and Sonja_

* * *

 

Yup. I’m drunk. Definitely. Drunk. Slip-and-slide spinny drunk. Hot cheeks and reckless yearning drunk.

So here’s Emma and her Cleopatra wig and cat eye makeup and she is very pretty. Like, non-subjectively, most people would look at her and agree, _yes, that is a beautiful girl, it has been scientifically proven, just look at her 100% symmetrical face_. She’s so little I think I could break her even though I’m not a really built dude. If I circled my fingers around her wrist there would still be a 4-inch bracelet of air. Her lips are soft and wet and slimy and plastic-y in that lipstick way and what pops into my head as we are kissing while the party lights jump around us and the DJ spins an unfortunate techno-dubstep remix of The Monster Mash is _maybe if I were a girl I would like kissing her more_.

I know. Logic, right? Stupid.

But that’s what makes the most sense right now to my drunkedy drunk brain and I need to keep my eyes closed while we move our lips around because every time I open them I have built-in _Terminator_ -style tracking sensors going _Beep Beep: Locking in Target_ and there he is dancing at the edges of my vision and I’m just embarrassed about it, how badly my eyes need to find him and how much I want his to find mine.

He’s taken off the white God wig, finally, too hot in here for it. He’s probably on his 6th beer. He was happy when we first got here — he was actually radioactive, like I could see a halo pulsing around him as he laughed too much and danced too wildy and kissed his girlfriend too hard — and I had to move away to the other side of the room, or else he’d know. He’d sense it on me, how much space he takes up inside my brain.

But now he and Sonja are on the edge of the dance floor and she is pissed, I can tell from all the way across the room by the way her hands are cutting through the air and her face is all knotted that this is getting ugly and she is going to storm out. The question is will he let her.

Surprise surprise, she storms out.

Surprise surprise, Even follows her.

Emma is doing some grinding type thing on me and yeah, it’s nice to have a body touching mine, but what I’m really thinking is _I need to let her know this isn't working for me, I just need to say it._

But instead I spin her around and kiss her again and now the _Terminator_ sensors give me a new read out: S _till nothing, No boner in sight, All clear_ so I tell her I have to use the bathroom and she nods and sidles up to a group of her friends and I leave the dance floor and go take a piss and when I come out he’s still not back and so I have no choice but to go outside and see if he’s there.

I open the door to step onto the street and the cool night air feels really good against my sweaty hot skin. The door shuts and the dance music mutes except for the underlying throbbing bass beat.

I wish I smoked cigarettes so I would have some excuse for coming out here, but I don’t, so instead I pull out my phone to look at non-existent new texts and even consider making a fake phone call to keep up the ruse that I had any other reason besides Even for leaving the party. I look around, yeah, I’m super casual about it, don’t see him. Really, who am I kidding? He left with Sonja.

I don’t want to go back into the party. What’s the point? I want to leave right now but I should probably go back in and tell Emma I’m feeling sick so she doesn’t think I’m a total dickhead for abandoning her. But I can’t go back in, because there will just be more of her lips, and so I lean against the wall and shut my eyes and accept that maybe being a dickhead is one of my defining qualities.

“Halla. Not in the mood to dance anymore?”

I don’t need to open my eyes to know his voice. And now my eyes are open and he’s real, he’s standing next to me with a cigarette between his fingers and he’s glowing in his white costume and his hair is still a little wet from sweating on the dance floor and I can smell the sweat actually, it’s not gross, it smells amazing and his cheeks are pink and every inch of me is alive alive alive.

“Nah, too hot in there,” I say. “Umm….everything ok? With Sonja?”

He looks at me. Doesn’t say anything for awhile. I feel the weight of his gaze and look away. Look back. There he still is.

Finally: “She left. I think we're over.”

 _High alert! This is not a drill!_ _All systems go!_

“Oh shit. That sucks. You ok?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want to, like, talk about it?”

“Actually, talking is the last thing I want to do right now.”

Am I really this drunk because when he takes a step closer to me the world slides out of joint and the sidewalk shifts, like tectonic plates are actually non-hyperbolically sliding around under my feet.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He’s so close, he’s saying it right in my ear, his breath is warm on my neck and I’ve forgotten how to speak or breathe or move.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Ok.”

“Ok. Great.”

He smiles and brings his cigarette to his lips. He takes a drag and exhales it out of the corner of his mouth in the opposite direction from me. And that’s when I take the cigarette out of his fingers and stub it out on the side of the building and kiss him.

 


	3. The Freestyle Rap Kiss // Even 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss in Even's bedroom after making cheese toasties_

* * *

  
We’re sitting on the floor of my bedroom eating these basically inedible cheese toasties and drinking beer and it’s like he’s finally able to relax around me. He took his hat off and it’s the first time I’ve seen him not wearing one of his backwards baseball caps. The way his blond hair is sort of smushed and fluffy at the same time makes it hard for me to stop looking at him and I want to tussle up his hair just to see what reaction I’d get.

“Have you heard rumors about my rapping?” he asks, all casual, not flirting at all. I’m so onto him.

“Actually I have.”

(This is actually true because I saw a video posted on Instagram of him rapping but this is not really a detail he needs to know).

“Give me a beat.”

“Ok, fine.”

He clears his throat and says in this raspy, low and hilarious hype-man way:  
  
“E-box give me the beat!”

It’s the best thing I’ve heard all day, maybe all week, maybe all month, maybe ever. It’s hard to stop smiling but I want to see what he can do so I lay down a beat:

“Ficka-ficka-ficka-ficka. Mm chika-ah-ah mm chika-ah-ah..”

He starts bopping his head around saying _yeah yeah mmm yeah_ , really feeling the groove, and I can’t keep the beat up because I’m smiling so hard and I start laughing. Now he’s smiling too and losing it.

“Come on! Focus!” he joke-shouts at me, clapping for me to pay attention. I love seeing his gappy teeth when his smile broadens and how his dimples practically jump off his face.

“Ok, ok,” I blow air through my lips like a horse and focus, decide it’s easier to keep a straight face if I don’t look at him so I pick a spot on the floor and start the beat back up again.

“Mm mm-ah ba-dum ba-dum ah  
Mm mm-ah ba-dum ba-dum ah…”

I’m totally shit at beatboxing but he doesn’t seem to care. I sneak a look up at him and now I can tell he’s actually trying to go for it for real, not joking around. He closes his eyes for a minute and then looks at me, a little smile curving around his cheeks, and he starts up.

“Yeah yeah yeah

Butterflies _flutter_ in my _stomach_  
I wonder why I _plummet_  
and why some _times_ my _mind_ comes _untied  
_ when your blue eyes _shine_ like an ocean _sunrise_

Other guys you _like_ might be telling you _lies_  
but here I am _stunned_ and _dumb_ from the _signs_  
that you are _inclined_ to come my way and _smile_

I’m unwise, _fumbling-crumbling_ under your _presence  
_ stuttering and stupid like a nervous _adolescent_

If you _like_ how my _flow explodes_  
I hope you _know_ it’s because I _hope  
_ that one day your _body_ will rock my _boat_

I know I'm _asking_ you to go _ecstatic_  
I'm more than an _addict,_ it’s _automatic  
_ for me and you to go on ahead _at it_

Love is a _reaction,_ soothe my _attraction  
_ with the _lotion_ of your _slow motion”_

And then he stops and his cheeks are bright pink and he kind of bites his lower lip a little nervously and I stop the beat. I don’t know who it was that just sprung those beautiful totally surprising totally amazing verses on me but I want to find out.

“Wow, dude! You can actually rap,” I say, and nudge his leg. I am genuinely stunned by what came out of his mouth. “Did you just make that up or did you write that before and have it memorized?”

“Did I have it memorized? Are you kidding me? That’s like asking a world renowned chef if he, like, thawed out the meal you are eating from the freezer.”

“Sorry sorry, didn’t mean to insult the flow master. But seriously, how did you learn to freestyle?”

“I dunno,” he’s looking at the ground, not at me, I can tell he’s embarrassed and it makes him even fucking cuter than I thought possible. “Just goofing around with my friends a lot, you get better the more you do it, and there are certain rules to help you.”

“Freestyle rules? Like what?”

“Just like, think of the end rhyme in advance in your head, keep flowing, use metaphors and take whatever’s around you to get inspiration from.”

He looks up at me and then looks at the floor like it’s the most interesting floor he’s ever seen.

“So you’re saying that rap you made up was about me, then?”

I didn’t know it was possible for his cheeks to get any redder but they do.

“Once you’re in the flow, you know, inspiration just strikes, it’s not like it’s all super planned, it’s the opposite of planned, it’s just whatever comes in your head.”

“Wow. Can you give me lessons?”

“Yeah right.”

“Seriously, you’ve got some skills, I really loved it.”

He looks at me with his puppy eyes and then back down to the floor and I know what I want and what I want is to kiss him. I’ve known it all afternoon, I’ve known it before this afternoon, known it from the first moment I saw him, and now I know it’s real and that he wants it to. I can’t believe how lucky I am and I want him to realize how much just spending these last few hours with him has lifted away something in me that I didn't know was tying me down.

I put my hand on his leg and say, “Really, Isak, that was amazing.”

His body tenses for a second and I know it’s because he feels my hand on his leg and I’m not taking it off, you can bet your life on that. Finally, he looks up from the floor and he licks his lower lip like a nervous tic and that’s when the door bell rings.

“Oh, fuck,” I say. “What time is it?”

He fishes out his phone and checks the time, “20:05.”

“I forgot I invited some friends over to pregame. But you’re welcome to stay.”

His eyebrows are all crinkled and I know he’s disappointed, but he can’t be more disappointed than I am, and now I have to get up and answer the door.

But I have to do _something_. So I slide a little closer to him and kiss him on the cheek.

Then I stand up to open the door for my friends and my girlfriend.


	4. The Reunited Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world, their first kiss is in Isak's doorway after Even has broken up with Sonja_

* * *

 

It’s Friday night and I’m chilling and drinking with the guys at my place. I’m trying to rally, really I am, but I just can’t seem to care about anything they’re saying. I know this makes me seem like a self-involved prick, like really Isak, you’re not the first person to have your heart squashed like a fly on a bug zapper, just man up about it and quit moping already _._ But everything that has happened (or more accurately: _not_ happened) in these last six weeks with Even is hovering like a cumulonimbus cloud in my brain. Or it’s like I’m driving through a thick fog and can barely see anything except for a band of twisty, curvy road ahead illuminated by a thin beam of headlights. And Even is both the light and the fog, if that makes any sense.

Two days ago I told the guys about my “thing” with Even (if you can even call it that at this point) and though I'm relieved to have the weight of that finally ( _finally_ ) off my chest, I’m still restless, remote, not really paying attention to their conversation even though I want to be. I’m just… elsewhere.

I’m in Even’s room and our legs and arms keep brushing up against each other and neither of us is acknowledging it but I know it’s not accidental. And I’m in my kitchen and his lips are inching so close to mine that I can almost taste the beer on his breath and then of course Noora picks that moment to barge back home from London. And we’re in the pool and I’m so stupidly sure it’s finally going to happen. I can feel it building and then that screaming hell beast of a girl comes in and the bubble bursts (ok, yes, technically we were trespassing in her house and she had every right to shout for her mom, but really, she couldn’t have just taken it down a notch and given us a minute?). And then we have to jet out of there and then we’re freezing and Sonja keeps calling him and it just…doesn’t happen.

And I’m in the school locker room, where he’s telling me that he and Sonja are breaking up. And I’m reading his text: _sorry, I need more time_. And I’m at the party where he and Sonja are kissing again and my brain is going black. And I’m at school where he comes up to me in the cafeteria and I can barely stand to look at him it hurts so bad.

And I’m looking at the apology drawing he slipped in my jacket and I’m sure again that I’m not crazy, I haven’t been making this all up, I know he feels it too. Doesn’t he?

I can’t give up yet because there’s this hope (however naïve or stupid it may be) that in spite of everything that _hasn’t_ happened, I know he’s been trying to find his way to me just as surely as I’ve been trying to find my way to him. But the path is all overgrown with weeds and thickets and thorns like a god damn enchanted forest in a fairy tale. I just want to hack through all the bullshit already and start getting to the happily ever after part. Or at the very least the kissing part.

So that’s where I am, miles away from my friends in some Even-induced daze, when Jonas asks me, “So, anything new with that guy Even or what?”

Jonas can be sort of uncanny like that.

Or maybe I’m just so obviously in a funk that it’s plastered on my forehead: _Sad_ , _maybe_   _more than a little gay, definitely more than a little heartbroken, very much desperate boy in need of relationship (or lack thereof) advice from his friends._

So I tell Jonas about the latest drawing I got from Even and he is not super impressed. He thinks all this back and forth stuff has been some sort of power trip or something, like Even's been playing with me. Then Magnus and Mahdi get wind of what we’re talking about and want to know what’s up as well.

“So, what’s going on with you two, really?” Mahdi asks.

“There’s nothing going on, he has a girlfriend.”

Magnus says, “Oh, so he’s pansexual as well?”

Here’s the thing, I don't actually know what pansexual totally means. But I’m not going to admit that to Magnus so I just say, “I don’t even know.” That basically sums up a lot of things about my life right now.

And now they’re all giving their two cents about what I should do about Even, what my next move should be. They think I should call him out and give him an ultimatum about breaking up with Sonja. Part of me still can’t actually believe that this is my life now, how quickly things can change, because only two days ago they didn’t even know I was into guys and now they are all mini _Savage Love_ advice columnists, doling out relationship wisdom bombs. I have to admit my friends are pretty great.

I hear what they’re saying though. I need to do something. I can’t just stay in this liminal state anymore and wait for him to make all the decisions. 

So I just go for it. I write: _Hi Even, thanks for the drawing, but if you’re not interested in something more you can just let it be. Call me when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend._

Boom. I press send before I can think about it too much and chicken out. It feels really good, actually, even though I’m terrified. Even though I maybe just totally fucked up and ruined my chances, it’s like I can breathe a little easier now. Sort of the same feeling as when I finally talked to Jonas a few days ago.

The boys are toasting me for finally growing a pair and before I can even think about regretting what I just did, he texts back: _What are you doing now? Can we talk?_

And it hits me: This actually might be real after all. This might actually be happening. Holy shit. I think it’s finally happening.

More advice from the guys. Should I call him? No. Jonas tells me I need to cat-and-mouse it, make him come to me, play a little hard to get.

Ok, I can do this. I text him: _Chilling at home._

Sent.

Jonas is sure he’s going to call. I wish I had his certainty. We are silent, staring at my phone like we are Moses waiting for a heavenly voice to start speaking from the burning bush.

We wait. No text. No call. 

It's like the air has all been sucked out of the room and now I know I'm truly the world's biggest sap because it’s never actually going to happen. What was I even thinking? The guys start talking about other things, probably because they are feeling sorry for me and just want to fill the empty awkward silence. I’m looking at my phone, deep in the fog again. I’m willing it to just do _something_. Ring, buzz, vibrate, ding, whatever, I don’t care, I just need some sort of signal, some sort of sign.

The doorbell rings. We aren’t expecting any more guests so I go to the window to see who is downstairs ringing the buzzer.

When I see that it is Even, time and space does a funny thing. It’s almost like I’m having an out of body experience or like I’m watching a movie of myself. A voice that must be my own is telling my friends they have to scram right now, they have to get their drinks and phones and coats and shoes and leave now through the back entrance so they don’t run into Even on his way up the steps. And in my mind I am also seeing the world through Even's eyes: he/me is opening the front door to the building, now he/me is coming up the stairs two at a time, now walking down the hall, now standing in front of my apartment door. And I’m also seeing myself, actually _all_ my selves, past and present, arriving at this moment together. And it’s like I knew all along that this was inevitable—this moment I’ve been waiting for and terrified of for as long as I can remember—and now that’s it's finally here I am ready, I’ve been preparing for this for my whole life without realizing it and I want it so bad I am burning up like a Phoenix and shedding my old skin.

My friends are gone.

I’m waiting for him now. I’m fidgety and nervous as hell.

He knocks on the door. I open it.

We look at each other and for a moment neither of us moves. I just want to grab him and hold him, regardless if we are meant to be together or not, regardless of all the doubt and uncertainty I’ve been wrestling with these last few days, weeks, maybe even my whole life. I just know I want to touch him, _need_ to touch him, and so I take a step closer and wrap him in my arms.

Our foreheads touch. We hold each other tight and embrace like this for a long time. I rest my head on his shoulder and he tucks the little pieces of my hair behind my ear that are kind of sticking out of my hat and he cradles the back of my head and neck. We rock each other and he whispers my name into my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine. I whisper his name back. I still don’t know yet what is going to happen next, how this is going to play out, but I feel safe. I tilt my face up and pull away for a second, though our arms are still wrapped up in each other. We look at each other and it’s like I’m finally able to take a full breath. Because now we are kissing.

I’m finally kissing a boy.

I’m finally kissing Even.

And even though it’s the first time, it feels like I’m back where I belong, where I was always meant to be. Like I’ve just returned from a long night’s journey: weary but relieved, and without a doubt, home.


	5. The Hijacked Coffee Date Kiss // Even 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss the day after the kosegruppa neon party_

* * *

 

_Hey thanks for yesterday what are your plans for the day?_

I look at Isak’s text and know I probably shouldn’t hang out with him today. Considering what almost happened last night in his kitchen and how he makes me feel all floaty inside like I’m a helium balloon about to burst, it’s probably not the smartest idea to feed the frenzy I feel when he’s near me. And it would be royally shitty of me to do anything with him while I’m still with Sonja. I know this. I know it. I know it. But…

I think about binaries and how so much of the way humans make sense of the world and our place in it is through a black and white system of rules and codes. The angel on your shoulder urging you _do the right thing, let your conscious be your guide, an apple a day keeps the doctor away_. The devil saying _do what you feel, follow your bliss, give in, treat yo’ self, indulge, don’t look back_. Wrong/Right. Good/Evil. Up/Down. Madonna/Whore. Crazy/Sane. Love/Hate. Gay/Straight. Hero/Villain.

The thing is, I’ve always preferred antiheroes and a little gray area.

* * *

   
_~~Hi, yeah last night was fun, hope Noora is ok, I have some family plans but will be free maybe later?~~_

_~~Yeah you know how to throw a party. Want to catch a movie later?~~ _

_~~No problem, how is Noora today? Not doing much today, just chilling at home~~ _

_~~Yeah thanks for last night I hope everything is ok with Noora. I had forgotten that I had already made plans with Sonja. Sorry, see you in school.~~ _

_Yeah thanks for last night hope everything is ok with Noora. I’m just chilling today, want to meet up and get a coffee?_

I send the text and wait. My heart is beating fast and erratic.

Less than a minute later he responds: _Ok, cool, where/what time should we meet?_

_~~Now?~~ _

_How about 14:00? Kaffebrenneriet?_

* * *

  
I get to the coffee shop about 30 minutes early and pick a 4-seater table by the window so I’ll have room to spread out my sketchbook. It’s this sort of compulsive thing I do sometimes when I’m not sure how in control I’ll be of myself; I like to get to places early and acclimate to the environment and make sure I pick out exactly where I want to sit and use the restroom and draw or write a little before any social interaction is supposed to occur. I order a cappuccino with a triple shot of espresso. I know I shouldn’t be mainlining this much caffeine, I’m nervous and jumpy enough as it is, but that doesn’t stop me from practically chugging it down. I like coffee so strong and hot it practically scalds your throat and makes your blood zing.

I put my earbuds in, pull out my sketchbook and start doodling, which immediately helps ground me. I am willing myself not to keep looking at my phone to check the time or at the door to see if Isak has come in. I am putting on my IDGAF attitude, playing it cool, looking fully engrossed in what I’m doing, when I sense someone approaching the table. I give it a second before I look up, expecting it to be Isak. But it’s not. Shit. It’s two girls I knew from Bakka, Elise and Gretchen. They are kind of hovering and wearing the overly-friendly-to-the-point-of-awkward expressions on their faces that I have grown accustomed to receiving over the years. They were in the revue group with me when shit went down last semester. They were pretty cool about it, though, and if they did gossip about me at least it wasn’t to my face. It’s been about 6 months since I’ve seen them and since I’m not on social media these days I bet they are curious about what has been going on with me.

“Even! Hi! Wow!” Elise says.

I stand up, pull out my earbuds and give them both a pat-hug and kisses on the cheek.

“Wow it’s so good to see you! How are you doing? You transferred schools, right? To Nissen? How is it? We miss you!” Gretchen says, almost in all one breath.

“Pretty good, yeah, everyone is nice. School is school though, right? The teachers are decent. No cinema studies courses though.”

“Aw, that’s too bad! I always loved your and Mikael’s film projects together. The animated projections you did for the winter revue last year are still my favorite ever! This year’s set is going to be such a major downgrade.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

Elise asks, “So have you joined the Nissen revue group?”

Their eyes dart toward each other almost imperceptibly. If I didn’t already know what they were thinking I might have missed it. But I do know. And I don’t miss it.

“Nah, actually I’ve switched alliances to the uh…kosegruppa.”

“Kosegruppa? Do we have one of those at Bakka?” Elise asks Gretchen.

I say, “It’s kind of like a revue pep squad? We bake treats and will make sure everyone has all they need for tech rehearsals to be fun and like, cozy. Not quite sure, I’m still pretty new to it.”

“Wow. Um that sounds really...um...quaint? Cute. It sounds cute,” Elise says.

“What, you don’t think I can bake or what?” I say with mock offense.

“No, it’s just that you were such an avant garde artist type before?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Gretchen continues, “No really, Even, we mean it. Even though stuff got a little…um...intense…last year we always thought you were so talented, in spite of everything. I hope you know that! We always believed in you, in spite of everything that happened.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. Gretchen is a sweet person and I know she’s trying to be nice but I just kind of look at her hand and she takes it off immediately.

Elise says, “Yeah, revue is so boring now without you, you always kept things interesting!”

I don’t quite know how to respond, but luckily Gretchen continues on before I can say anything. “And what about Sonja? How is she handling everything?” she asks.

Sonja performed in the revue with them while she was still in school and I know they all follow each other on social media so I’m not sure exactly what she’s asking but I respond anyway, “Yeah, Sonja’s good. Working at a wine shop now, actually. So lucky me, I get a staff boyfriend discount.”

They laugh at my weak attempt at a joke, which is gracious of them I guess.

Then Isak enters the café and looks over toward us, eyebrows in full crinkle mode when he spots me with the two girls. I can tell he’s a little unsure about approaching us so I give him a wave and beckon him over.

“Halla,” he says.

“Halla,” I say. I’m not quite sure if we should hug or not and neither is he, so we just look at each other for a second. I notice that neon pink lines are ever-so-faintly visible on his cheeks; a stubborn remnant from the party last night, like the inky remainder of an entrance stamp to a club or bar that refuses to fully wash off the next day. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to touch anything so much as those faded pink lines on his cheeks.

“Isak, this is Gretchen and Elise, two, uh, friends of mine from Bakka. Isak goes to Nissen with me.”

They all greet each other and the girls exchange a little raised eyebrow look and I’m not quite sure what to do next. I mean, obviously, I want them to leave us alone immediately, but I’m not sure how to maneuver that without being a jerk and setting off any of their alarm bells.

“Want to order drinks?” I say. “I already had one but it’s almost done so I’ll get another.”

So we all get in line and the girls mull over what to order and Isak isn’t saying much. I want to keep the conversation light and moving fast and away from any topics that involve my time at Bakka.

“So how is Noora today? And the rest of your roommates?” I ask him.

“Oh, she’s ok I guess. Thanks for talking with her and everything. She keeps saying she wasn’t dumped, that she and William are on a break or whatever. And Eskild got all offended when I tried to bring up the living situation because now we’re 4 people in a 3 bedroom place, cuz he thought I wasn’t being sensitive enough to her feelings? But I’m just a little nervous because it was her room before she left and I think she’s the one on the lease so I just hope they don’t kick me out or whatever."

The barista asks if we are taking our drinks to go or not and if all our drink orders are together. I’m about to suggest that Isak and I take ours to go when Elise chimes in that she’ll pay for all our drinks for us. And they should all be made to stay. It takes me a second to realize she has just hijacked my date.

“Elise, you don’t have to do that, that’s too nice of you,” I say.

“My pleasure. I’m dying to catch up with you! I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other!”

“You don’t mind if we join you?” Gretchen asks.

Crap on a stick.

“Yeah, ok, thanks. You’re too nice, though.”

So we order drinks and I’m furiously trying to think how to get Isak and myself out of here as soon as possible without giving the girls any gossip fodder.

We get our drinks and head back over to the table. Isak and I sit on the side where I was seated before and the girls sit opposite from us.

“So Isak, how did you and Even meet each other? Do you have classes together?”

“Ah, no, actually, I’m ’99 so we don’t have any classes. We met at a revue group.” He looks a little embarrassed but in a totally adorable way.

“So you’re in the kosegruppa too! Even was just telling us about that. That is really adorable. Do you like to bake then?” Elise asks.

Isak’s eyes get all deer-in-headlights for a second but he quickly reassembles his features. “Umm…not exactly. I know the group leaders and they were pretty, um, insistent that they get lots of new members this year. The last time I baked anything was for my mom’s birthday when I was like 10, and I almost set the house on fire, so I wouldn’t say I’m a baking expert or anything.”

The girls laugh. A lot. Elise flashes him a look. Like a _look_ look.

She says, “I absolutely love baking, I could give you a private lesson sometime so you’re not an accidental arson the next time you try it out.”

Oh hell no.

Isak scoff-laughs and looks at me real quick. I raise an eyebrow and get a real smile. Even-1 Elise-0.

She keeps going. “What’s your favorite subject area? If you have one? You seem like a Maths guy to me.” Her finger has become permanently attached to the strand of her hair she keeps twirling so much I think she will pull it out of her scalp.

“Sciences mostly. I’m decent at Bio.”

“And do you know what you'd want to study at uni yet?”

“Nah, just trying to get through high school first. One step at a time.”

There she goes with another peel of laughter. Forget private baking lessons, she should offer a master class in aggressive flirting.

Gretchen asks, “What’s the Russ scene like at Nissen? Has it gotten crazy yet? Are you on a bus, Even?”

I shake my head no.

I notice then that Isak’s left hand is resting on his thigh under the table and he's kind of picking at the fabric of his jeans. His other hand is on the table, fiddling with his coffee mug.

“What about you two, are you on a bus?” I ask the girls and scooch my chair a little closer to Isak’s.

“Of course! It’s been crazy, do you remember that guy Endre Haugland? Well you’ll never guess what he did…”

I rest my knee against Isak’s. Testing the waters. He doesn’t pull away. I didn’t expect that he would but it’s a relief all the same. Elise is blathering on about this boy I sort of know whose dad is a city council member and trying to curb the crazy Russ Bus drinking and sex dares and how Endre got totally drunk and got caught peeing on the front lawn of City Hall and they made the whole school do an assembly about it and everyone on the bus had to do mandatory clean-up volunteer hours and blah blah blah…

I laugh when it seems like she’s hitting the parts in her story where we’re supposed to laugh and then I’m resting my hand on Isak’s knee. I rub my thumb in slow circles. I don’t look at him, though. My heart is going faster than a rabbit's. I want to look at him but am using every bit of my concentration to look like I'm focused on Elise’s interminable story.

Then: Isak’s hand is resting on mine. Our fingers find each other. Our thumbs are explorers of this whole new world of sensation and skin. It’s like my brain has relocated to my fingers because it’s all I can feel: the slight roughness of the pads of his fingertips, so different than Sonja’s soft and always well-lotioned ones. This hand in mine belongs to a boy and it feels fucking incredible. Elise is sounding even more like a parent on a _Peanuts_ cartoon, I can barely hear a word she’s saying, all I’m thinking is how good it feels for our bodies to be connecting like this, finally.

I’m thinking of something I learned in class once about how fingertips have the densest amount of sensory receptors than almost any other part of the body, it’s something crazy like 2,500 nerve endings per cm2. I’m pretty sure I can feel every single neuron, all firing off pleasure signals like rockets on a holiday. I’m thinking if this is how good touching just a small part of Isak feels then touching even more of him is going to send me over the edge. Now I’m of course thinking of him naked and running my fingers all over him and I’m actually getting half hard just imagining it. I didn’t think it was possible, to get hard just from holding hands. But tell that to my dick, right? And it’s not like I want to do anything more than what we are doing. I don’t want to bring my hand further up his thigh (though I’d be a liar if I wasn’t curious about what was happening up there) because right now where we are feels exactly right.

I don’t dare look at him, I know the girls will read it immediately on my face how stupidly happy I am if I look him in the eye. I like this secret touching too much right now to give anything away to them.

He pulls his hand away fast all of a sudden and when I sneak a quick look at him, he’s engrossed in his coffee mug. Then I look back at Elise and I realize she is waiting for me to say something but I obviously didn’t hear the question so have no idea how to respond.

“Hello, Earth to Even?” she says and kind of waves her hand in my face. 

“Sorry,” I say. “Must have just spaced out there for a second. What did you just ask?”

The girls are looking at me with deep concern, like this must be part of my crazy. I decide to just let them keep thinking that.

“I just asked you if Sonja is taking a full gap year and then going to university next year or if you’re still both planning to do a travel year together once you graduate. I know she talked about wanting to do that with you before…”

Now I know why Isak pulled his hand away and I feel my cheeks flush and my mind starts to race.

“Um, we haven’t decided any of that yet. Need to see how this year goes.”

The conversation is veering dangerously close to areas I don’t want to discuss right now in front of Isak. I don’t know the best way to ditch the girls; they already know Isak and I aren’t in classes together so I can’t tell them we have to work on a school project or some excuse like that. I pick up my coffee to take a sip and then get a brilliant idea.

I rest my elbow on the very edge of the table and continue talking. “Sonja’s working to save some money now to travel but she hasn’t decided where to yet. She’d love to go to South America because she studied Spanish…Oh! Shit!”

I’ve slipped my elbow off the side of the table and allowed my coffee to splash all over the front of my shirt. The coffee is not too hot anymore but I knew this already. It’s a right mess.

“Oh no!” Elise says.

“Here, use these!” Gretchen gets up and grabs a stack of napkins for me.

“Jeez, I’m so clumsy and spaced out today. Too much coffee, I’m so jumpy. Sorry. Shit, I better rinse this all off before it stains. Um, Isak, do you have an extra layer I could maybe borrow if I change out of this one?”

He looks at me a little confused and then looks down at what he is wearing.

“Sure, yeah, I’ve got a tshirt under my flannel would that work?”

“Yeah, you’re a lifesaver. I want to rinse this one all off before the coffee ruins it. Bathroom?”

“Yeah, ok.”

“I’m sorry, we’ll be back, thanks for getting the napkins, Gretchen.”

* * *

   
The bathroom at this place is a single person type, not multi-stall. But I already knew this. We go in together and it’s suddenly like we’re in a different world, remote and quiet. There’s a scented candle and everything.

I strip off my shirt and run it under the sink. My skin is prickly and goose-pimply. I look at the reflection in the mirror and see him looking at me and then back down to the floor.

“Sorry I already had three espresso shots before you got here, I’m just all raw nerves right now. Thanks for the shirt.”

I turn around to look at him and he’s looking at me and he’s unbuttoning his flannel shirt and taking a step toward me and it’s like there’s this magnet drawing us together. He pulls off his flannel and then his undershirt and he extends his arm out to hand it to me. He looks so good without his shirt on, better than I imagined it and I've been imagining it plenty recently. He swallows and I see his Adam’s apple rise up and down like a slow-motion closeup in a film.

I reach out to grab the shirt from him and my hand brushes against the top of his. I don't pull away. I keep it resting on top of his and then we each take another step closer together and then there is no more space between us. We’re kissing and our hands are everywhere. His skin is hot under my hands and I'm feeling every inch of him that I can, I'm greedy for his skin. I drag my fingernails through his hair and against his scalp and I’m kissing all under his jaw and his nails are digging down into my back and we are so so quiet the whole time. I press him up against the wall and he jumps a little in surprise.

“Cold tile,” he whispers with a little smile.

Then we are kissing again and it’s the best feeling. I actually want to strip off his pants right now but I have a little self-restraint so I just feel his lips and tongue on mine and let that be enough. It is enough, it’s more than enough, it’s everything I wanted but so much more too. We’re breathing heavy and then there’s a knock on the door.

“Just a minute!” I say.

We untangle ourselves and look at each other and I run my fingers down through his hair one more time before breaking away and pulling on his tshirt.

“I didn’t know I’d run into Gretchen and Elise here, sorry if they ruined our date.” I say.

“This is a date?”

“Hell yes it’s a date.”

He smiles and blushes a little and I realize I would do just about anything to keep that smile on his face for as long as I can.

He says, “Well we might have to break the news to them that your shirt is in need of an immediate intervention and so we sadly have to get out of here and get to the nearest washing machine stat.”

“It’s a laundry 911.”

“Yeah, a narrowly averted coffee catastrophe.”

“What a shame we have to leave so soon.”

“A real pity.”

He smiles and finishes buttoning up his shirt and pulls me in for another kiss.

“So,” he asks. “What else did you have in mind for our first date?”

 


	6. The Guitar Lesson Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world, they kiss in Even's room the Monday after the kosegruppa pregame_

* * *

_  
Hey thanks for yesterday what are your plans for the day?_

_Yeah thanks for last night I hope everything is ok with Noora.  
I had forgotten that I had already made plans with Sonja. Sorry, see you in school._

Well, shit.

I stare at the text and try to uncover any secret subtext or hidden message my slightly hungover brain might be missing instead of admitting the glaring truth that Even just blew me off.  _Thanks for last night_. Thanks for what exactly? Thanks for making out with a girl who clearly likes me more than I like her in a pathetic attempt to make Even jealous? Thanks for almost kissing him and almost causing him to cheat on his long-term (but non-amputee) girlfriend? Yeah, I really deserve Good Samaritan of the Year Award; I wonder why the mayor hasn’t handed me the keys to Oslo to award my altruism and selfless acts of goodwill towards men. _I had forgotten I had already made plans with Sonja._ Right, of course, Sonja. The girlfriend (emphasis on the _girl_ part) Even is apparently growing apart from enough to want to kiss me (I think? thought?) but not enough to scrap their Sunday brunch/romantic stroll/antiquing or whatever couples do on the weekend plans. And who just forgets they’ve made plans with someone they saw the whole night before? Hm. Nope. Not buying that. Last night was obviously a fluke and he's come to his senses. Fuck.

Of course I’m fucking disappointed. But I’m not going to dwell on it. Just going to proceed like this is any other normal Sunday, not one where I had my hopes popped like a bulging zit on a masochistic teenager’s chin. Sorry for the gross image. No, I’m not sorry, because that is the truth. I actually do feel like a pimple. Ugh. Blech. Blerg. Yes, I’m being whiny. Yes, I am in fact, dwelling. No, I don’t care. I’m allowed to lie in bed all day and crank angry music through my headphones so loud my ears are throbbing red and all my ear cilia commit mass harakiri. I’m allowed to feel unrelentingly sorry for myself for hours on end. It’s a rite of passage.

* * *

  
So when Even approaches me on Monday morning while I’m trying to open my jammed-up locker and asks me if I’m planning to go to the big Halloween party on Friday and if I want to pregame with him, I have to use every ounce of my self-control to tell him no, Halloween isn’t really my thing. I try to pretend like I’m a Zen monk fasting in the lotus position by a friggin’ bodhi tree, that is how much calmness I am trying to project. Even though inside I am basically screaming _OF COURSE I WANT TO GO TO THE HALLOWEEN PARTY WITH YOU, I WOULD DO ANYTHING IF THAT MEANT I GET TO BE NEAR YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL IDIOT._ Sorry to go all caps on you there but seriously, what else is there to say except that yes, I want to hang out with him again, clearly, thanks Captain Obvious, but no, I’m not that interested in being the high school equivalent of a home wrecker. Maybe I should get that Good Samaritan award after all.

“Well what are you doing today after school? Want to hang out? I’m working on this graphic novel concept and I’d love to get your opinion of what I have so far.”

“Really? Um, wow. Thanks.”

“What time are you done classes?”

“Um, 15:30.”

“Great, so we’ll take the bus together?”

“Sure, yeah, ok.”

“Cool. Meet you in the courtyard after school.”

Then he punches open my stuck locker and walks away, leaving me to pick my jaw up off the floor. As usual.  
 

* * *

  
No one else is home at Even’s place when we get there. I guess his parents both have 9-5 jobs? We put our bags down and take our coats and shoes off. I wasn’t nervous on the bus ride over here but now I am jumpy as hell all of a sudden like I’ve just downed a bucket of coffee. And I have to pee. (It’s this thing that happens when I get nervous, ok?).

“Hey, can I use your restroom?”

“Sure, yeah, down that hallway.”

Listen, I’m not typically a snoopy guy, it’s not like I go around trying to find out people’s deepest and darkest secrets. But I am a human after all, not a saint, and I strongly believe that only a saint could resist the urge to look in another person’s bathroom medicine cabinet. It’s sort of like if you see a 50 kr note on the ground, who is _not_ going pick it up and keep it? It’s not like finding a wallet or a wad of ten thousand kr, that’s a whole other story. But just a 50 note? Who can resist pocketing that? Who can resist peeking behind the medicine cabinet of the boy you're beyond infatuated with and almost kissed just two nights ago?

I’m no stranger to a full medicine cabinet. My mom being who she is and all. But I admit I am taken aback a little by what I see. Not all of it in there is Even’s. Some bottles are labeled with what must be his mom’s name. But I count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 different bottles with Even’s name on them. Two of the bottles are expired, though. There’s also a days of the week pill counter tray thing. I only recognize one of the brandnames on Even’s bottles: Zoloft. Zoloft can be used for lots of things, though, including depression and whatever the hell else it is that my mom has, but also panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety, all sorts of stuff.

I feel really dirty and shut the cabinet door and try to forget everything I just saw.

* * *

  
When I come back into Even’s room he has a bunch of loose pages spread out on the floor and he’s arranging them in a specific way. He’s kind of pursing his lips together in concentration in this pout type way. The guy’s lips should really be illegal. He looks up at me and smiles when he sees me enter the room. I feel like a total asshole, like a real stack of jizz waffles, for invading his privacy back there in the bathroom.

“Sorry I don’t have any weed left for us to smoke today. My friend from Bakka who I usually get from has been a little flaky on me.”

I sit down next to him on the floor so I can take a closer look at his drawings. And since I’m being honest, so I can also have an excuse to let my leg brush up against his. Yes, I'm the king of suave and subtle. Really, you should be taking notes on my skills.

“Nah, that’s cool. I don’t like to smoke on school days too much anyway.”

“You’re a model student, then?” he smiles at me and I feel good and still a little shitty at the same time.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No I can tell, you’re one of the good ones. You just like to pretend you’re not.”

“I’ll have you know I’m getting a 4 in Jurisprudence.”

“Thinking of becoming a lawyer, are you?”

“I thought I would like it since I love _SVU_ and _Better Call Saul_ but it turns out to be more about of lot of ancient dead philosophers. Way theoretical shit, not how to help someone get away with building a meth lab.”

This cracks Even up for some reason, which makes me happy.

“ _Better Call Saul_ , huh? You know, now that I think about it, you kind of remind me of Jesse Pinkman. Not really in looks, even though you both have a hoodie fetish. But you both have that lost puppy thing going on.”

“Lost puppy? Seriøst??”

“If there’s something you need to tell me about any illicit activities you have going on, I’m a really good secret keeper. I’m no Hank.”

“I still haven’t moved on from the whole _you just referring to me as a puppy thing_.”

“It was a compliment.”

“Jesse Pinkman was a total badass, anyway.”

“He was always getting the shit beat out of him. You just want to pick him up and protect him, like a confused puppy.”

“No way, he was like this ruthless badass. Lost puppy, holy hell.”

“Ok sorry, I obviously hit some sort of raw nerve there. You also remind me of the guy who plays whatshisname Jojen Reed from _Games of Thrones_? You know that actor who was Liam Neeson’s son in _Love, Actually?”_

“You think I’ve actually seen _Love, Actually_? Who do you take me for? But Jojen at least could see visions and shit so I’ll take that over being compared to a puppy any day.”

“Well who do I remind you of?”

“Um...James Dean mixed with a giraffe?”

That gets him really cracking up again and I feel a lot better now.

“Ok asshole, here’s what I have so far.” He's laughing as he says it so I know he's not actually insulted. He’s done arranging all his art pages on the floor. “I was thinking that instead of a normal comic or graphic novel layout it would all fold out in one long accordion type way, which is why I have to spread them all out like this. There’s this drawing of a road along the bottom of all the pages that ties it all together.”

The whole thing spread out takes up about the length of his bed. I start at the beginning and make my way down the line. The comic is about a boy named Tristan who has a creature that lives on his back, like a big dark blob looking thing with googly eyes. The creature and the boy are best friends, which is a little weird. They do everything together, they have this sort of _Calvin and Hobbes_ thing going on because no one else in the boy's life can see the creature, whose character is both really darkly funny and also kind of an asshole naysayer and always giving Tristan a hard time. The road going through all the pages is the kid growing up. New years of his life. The story is not done yet, it ends when the boy is 15.

I like it but I don’t quite get it. And I don’t know why Even wanted my opinion about it.

“It’s really good,” I say finally. “It’s not done though, right?”

“No, I just wanted to see if it made sense? Like you can be really honest with me, what do you think about it?”

“Um, it’s really funny. The monster guy is like a total asshole but still likable too in a weird way. He’s like Tristan’s imaginary friend, right? Does Tristan get too old to stop seeing him or something? Do you know what happens next?”

“Yeah, I know what happens next but I won’t spoil it for you. And the art is obviously still pretty rough, nothing is inked in yet.”

“It still looks great, though. Is it just for fun or is it for a school assignment?”

“Um. Not a school assignment. Just a personal project.”

“Cool, yeah, it’s great. I like the part where they go to the crappy amusement park and everything is terrible and Tristan eats too much cotton candy and has to hurl.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my dark sense of humor.”

I really don’t know what else to say about it. I liked it a lot and I’m glad he showed it to me, I’m just not a literary or art critique type of guy.

“Do you like to draw or anything like that?” he asks after a minute or so of silence while I reread parts of his story.

“Um, if you mean stick figures then yeah I’m pretty much Picasso level.”

“I’m sure you are a stick figure prodigy.”

“Do you mean do I do anything creative wise? Um. I dunno. I guess I like to rap and sing a little bit.”

“You sing?”

“Eh, kinda. Just for fun, though. Not seriously.”

“Do you play guitar?”

“Nah.”

“You should learn, it’s not that hard.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve always been more into sports and video games but that can be a total time suck. And kind of boring after awhile.”

“I know what we’ll do now, I’ll give you your first guitar lesson.”

"Really?"

"Dead serious."

He takes down his acoustic guitar off the wall and we sit on the small couch under his loft bed.

“Ok, I’m going to teach you the way my dad taught me when I was little. It’s the 'two-person guitar' method. Here, get closer to me.”

I scoot in right next to him. Our legs and arms are touching. I REPEAT. WE ARE TOUCHING! (Sorry for the caps again, this is just the best thing that could have possibly happened right now. Ok, yeah, I’m also a little nervous again. But not have-to-pee level nervous).

He continues, “This method is great because first I’ll do the chords and you just have to worry about strumming and then we’ll switch places.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“Ok. So my dad is kind of old, obviously, and he really never moved on from thinking that the only music worth listening to was made in the 60s so that kind of rubbed off on me a little bit. For rock-and-roll that is. One of the first songs he ever taught me was _Gloria_. You know that song?”

“Um, Van Morrison?”

“Well technically the group is Them featuring Van Morrison, but it’s him singing, yeah.”

“Don’t tell me you are one of those ‘ _well, technically’_ music snobs who knows like, all of The Beatles birthdays and zodiac signs and stuff.”

That gets a good laugh out of him. “Damn. Called out! I will keep my inner music snob under control. But you know the song, right? _Gloria_?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“It’s dead simple, just three chords the whole time, E major, D, A. Can you believe that, only three friggin’ chords and it’s one of the best songs ever?”

I like seeing him get this excited. I like his leg touching mine. I like everything happening right now.

“So, for the strum pattern. Here, take this pick. It’s just a double time 1-2-3-4 on each chord over and over. E gets two beats, D gets one, A gets one. Down-up the whole time. So 1-up, 2-up, 3-up, 4-up. Yeah, ok that’s _sort of_ it.”

I’m giving it a try. I mean, I thought I had decent rhythm but it’s actually harder than I thought it would be to keep everything right on beat and not tear your fingers up at the same time. He’s keeping the chords going on his end and after a little bit I think I’m getting the hang of it ok.

“Ok, not bad, I am seeing your inner Keith Richards coming out already. Do you want me to teach you the chords and switch places or do you want to try and sing and strum first at the same time?”

“Um, I’ll keep strumming I think.”

“Ok, cool. Alright, so let’s see what you got. Do you know the words?”

“Maybe?”

“Ok, well I’ll pull them up on my phone and you can get us started. I’ll sing all the background 'Glorias' and you'll take the lead. Ok, you ready? I’m counting on you to bring it here. Let’s go 1-2-3-4.”

I try to feel the rhythm and put on my best raspy bluesy voice.

“ _Like to tell ya about my baby_  
_Lord you know she comes around_  
_She’s about five feet four_  
_Right from her head to the ground_

 _Well she comes round here_  
_Just about midnight_  
_She make ya feel so good, Lord_  
_Well she make you feel alright_

 _And her name is_  
_G-and L-and O-and R-and I-and A A A_

 _G-L-O-R-I-A (Gloria)_  
_G-L-O-R-I-A (Gloria)_

 _I'm gonna shout it all night_  
_I'm gonna shout it everyday_

 _Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah..._ ”

Even and I are smiling and shouting like idiots. He keeps the chords going and I keep the strumming going and he talk-shouts, “Ok that was pretty good. But the best part about this song is actually making up your own lyrics. My dad taught me that too. Ok, my turn to be Van.”

He clears his throat and then starts at it.

“ _Like to tell ya about my baby_  
_Lord you know he comes around_  
_He’s about six feet tall_  
_Really knows how to have a ball_

 _Well he comes round here_  
_Just about dinner time_  
_He makes me feel so good, Lord_  
_Well he make me feel alright_

 _And his name is_  
_I-and S-and A-and K-oh-oh-oh-oh_

 _I-S-A-K-oh-oh (Isak)_  
_I-S-A-K-oh-oh (Isak)_

 _I'm gonna shout it all night_  
_I'm gonna shout it everyday_

Ok, your turn again.”

I’m trying to remember a time in recent memory that I’ve smiled this much or felt so happy to the point of being lightheaded. It’s really hard to think of anything except the sound of his voice and the way he is looking at me and how we’re creating something together in the moment, unrehearsed and with minimal overthinking or overanalyzing involved. Just free and easy.

“Oh jeez, ok, here I go. Mm mm mm...

 _Like to tell ya about my baby_  
_Lord you know he comes around_  
_He’s about six feet four_  
_I like his bedroom floor_

 _Well he comes round here_  
_Yeah he looks so fine_  
_He makes me feel so good, Lord_  
_Yeah I wish he were mine_

 _And his name is_  
_E-and V-and E-and N-en-en-en-en_

 _E-V-E-N-en-en (Even)_  
_E-V-E-N-en-en (Even)_

 _I'm gonna shout it all night_  
_I'm gonna shout it everyday"_

We finish up that round of shout-singing and keep laughing. Seriously, we’re a real couple of goofy doofus idiots right now.

We stop playing and he says, “Do you think you’re ready to graduate to chords yet?”

“Hell yeah, I can do this song in my sleep now.”

“Ok, wow. Get a little strumming in you and the cocky wild man comes out. Ok. So, like I said, it’s dead simple. Just E-D-A the whole time. Here, let me show you. Scoot toward the edge of the couch. I have to kind of sit behind you. Yup ok. E-major chord.”

So now he’s taking my fingers and placing them in the proper spots on the fretboard and his fingers are pressing down into mine and he is essentially spooning me while we sit there and I’m suddenly aware of how hard and fast my heart is beating and all the points of contact of our bodies which are: 1. Four fingers on my left hand 2. My left forearm 3. My left shoulder leaning into his chest 4. His left leg up against mine and 5. His right leg sort of wrapping behind me on the couch. And I’m supposed to also be learning chords right now? Not fucking likely. He guides my fingers to the next chord, D. I strum a little to get a feel for it and when I turn my head to the left slightly, his face is so close to mine it makes my face flush with incriminating heat. So I look back down at the fretboard and feel the strings digging into my fingertips, hurting in a good way. Next chord.

He goes over all three chords again and says, “Do you got that? Or do I need to repeat the lesson for you one more time?”

“Um, can you show me the first one again, E-major?”

“Sure.”

“And now D again?”

The pads of his fingertips are calloused and rough, I never noticed that before. He also has black ink stains on the side of his hand and deep in the rim around his cuticles and fingernails. He smells almost lemony and peppery, like whatever hair product or soap he uses might also make you sneeze. Or wake you up.

“Um, what’s the last chord again?”

“I think you were a little bit quicker on the uptake with the strumming part.”

“Well there wasn’t as much to distract me at that particular moment.”

He smiles and I feel my cheeks burning up and I keep trying to practice strumming and making sure to not turn my face or look into his eyes. It takes a lot of freaking concentration.

Now he’s right by my ear and says, “So you’re saying me teaching you these chords is distracting you?” His breath is so close on my neck it sends a shiver right through me. I nod and keep looking down at the board. “As distracting as this?”

He uses his right hand to turn my face towards his. I meet his eyes finally and he’s got this perfect little secretive smile. His right hand is still on my chin and he guides my face towards his and he kisses me. Our left hands are still in A-chord position and he presses his whole hand into mine and our fingers become an entangled jumble squeezing over and around the fretboard.

We’re kissing and it’s amazing but I’ve still got this guitar in my lap and I’m not sure, should I put it down? Should we shift positions? I’m trying to not be in my head but I’m also unsure, should I be using my tongue? I’ve never kissed a boy before. HOLY FUCK. I’m kissing a boy, for real, it’s not buried deep in my fantasy world anymore, it’s happening to me, on me, right now, and I’m scared and excited and also a little freaked out. Not freaked out, exactly, but it’s like I used to know all the rules and now they are out the window and I always thought I was a pretty good kisser before, but those were girl kisses and do guys judge kisses by a different standard? Our lips are hot and wet and I want to bite his lower lip but I don't because would that be weird? And I'm getting turned on for real but this guitar is in my lap kind of smushed against me in this not great way. I want to not be thinking this much and just be kissing him but I’ve got all these pesky thoughts floating around and tugging at me going _me me me_ like a bratty toddler. I want to know how his tongue feels, though. Really bad. So I go for it. I slide my tongue against his and then he kind of makes a surprised noise and pulls away.

He’s not kissing me anymore. Fuck. What did I do wrong? I’m fighting the urge to run out of the room in total humiliation.

He moves the guitar off my lap and puts it on the ground and slides his legs all the way around me so now he is all wrapped tight around me and I am leaning back into his chest, sort of like a bear hug but not? More like he’s protecting me?

We aren’t kissing, but we aren’t talking anymore, so after a little bit of time of him just holding me in silence I ask him, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not, what do you mean?”

"Well, you stopped kissing me."

He's quiet again for a little bit before he says, “Um, well, it’s just, I really like you, Isak.”

“I really like you, too.”

It’s weird that we’re not looking at each other when we say this. Just holding each other. Or maybe that’s not too weird. Maybe that makes it easier. Who the hell knows?

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for awhile now.”

“Me, too.”

“And I want to kiss you again.”

“Ok, great. I want that, too.”

“But…”

“But. Buts are never good.”

“Yeah, I’m so sorry. I have a girlfriend.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to have a girlfriend and kiss you at the same time. It’s not fair to either of you.”

I swallow hard. I’m not crying but it feels like a build up to a cry. I shove it the hell down. I refuse to acknowledge I have tear ducts.

“Do you love Sonja?”

“Yes. But it’s complicated. And things are changing between us. I don’t know what the hell is going on with me. But I do know that you make me feel something that I didn’t know was possible before. You make me feel like I’m free and safe at the same time. Do you get that?”

I think I do. But I’m not quite 100% sure. I'm never 100% sure about anything with Even, if I'm being totally honest. But I want to be. 100% I mean. So I nod into his chest and he leans down and kisses the back of my head and my hair and we breathe together and hold each other. We stay like this for a long time, until the afternoon light fades out and his room gets dark. We hold each other and tell each other things about ourselves and make dumb jokes and even though I liked kissing him and want to kiss him again, I also like this. And I’m not in a rush. We have all the time in the world, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*Here's a link to Gloria on youtube*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0aHmMfZTEw)


	7. The Kosegruppa Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss during the first kosegruppa meeting_

* * *

 

“Do you know the group leader lady?”

“Vilde? With the ‘love exercise’?”

“What was that?”

“No, I mean, I just had to leave, I couldn’t deal with that stuff. What happened?”

“She made us walk around and, uh, feel each other up in a dark room. And if you touched a dick…you had to suck it."

“No?!”

“Nah,” he says and laughs.

There’s a lull in our conversation and I’m desperately trying to come up with what to say next without betraying anything on the outside but non-friggin-chalance that I am actually sitting next to Tall Mysterious Stranger Guy smoking a blunt and attempting to make simple conversation. Conversation that apparently involves joking (?) about sucking dicks. I’m trying to get my head together enough to think up something clever to respond, but unfortunately everything in my head now is 100% dick-related. Fuck.

“What class are you in?” I ask after a silence that is probably only a few seconds but feels like enough time for the light of a star that died during the Paleozoic Era to finally reach earth.

“3STB.”

“But…you didn’t go here last year?” Yeah. Like I wouldn’t have noticed if he went to Nissen last year. Like I don’t have eyes! Or a dick! He doesn’t exactly blend in with the crowd, seeing as he’s about 6’4 and maybe the best looking guy at school I’ve ever seen. Not that I’m looking at guys all the time. But. Whatever, you get it. Tall Mysterious Stranger Guy is fucking hot. And also carries around really good weed.

“No, Bakka.”

“You transferred in your final year?”

He hands me the joint and I take a drag but he doesn’t have a chance to answer my question because none other than my archnemesis/blackmailer Sana approaches our spot. Great. I can tell by the icicles bulging out of her eyes that she is none too pleased to find me skipping out from the all-important kosegruppa meeting, smoking a joint to boot.

“Isak, there you are. We were afraid you got lost. We were about to assemble a search party.” She is all cool politeness when she says this but I can read between the lines.

“Nah not lost, I was just talking with fellow group member here…ummm…” I cough because I’ve realized what a dumbass I am for not even asking the name of Tall Mysterious Stranger Guy (who coincidentally makes me feel like I don’t know my own name anymore).

He catches my signal and reaches out to shake her hand and says “Even” with such mega-watt charm that even the Ice Queen herself seems to melt a little. No one is safe from him, apparently.

“Sana, a pleasure,” she says, returning his handshake and smiling with way more warmth than she’s ever hurled my way. “Vilde was just finishing up getting everyone partnered off and then we’re going to do some more ice breaker exercises. Care to join us?”

“Cool cool, we were just getting ready to head back in,” I lie.

She directs the next part solely to me, “That’s wonderful news, Isak. Vilde spent a long time planning out all the group exercises so I know you’d hate to disappoint her and me by _not actually participating_.”

Ouch.

“Yeah, Sana, got it. Heading in.”

“So you two are going to be baking partners then I take it?” she asks us. I swear to God she smirks for a living.

“Yup, that’s right. Isak was just telling me how excited he is to be in this club. You can put us down as partners,” Even says and gives me a little shoulder nudge. Who is this guy?

“So…are the rest of your friends running late or are they no-shows?” Sana asks me. Friggin’ Sana.

“Um...I don’t think they can make it. Extenuating circumstances.”

“That’s too bad. Though not terribly surprising. Ok, the next round of exercises is happening in 5 minutes. _Hope to see you inside.”_

She gives me a closed-lipped smile and heads back into the school.

I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding as soon as she is out of earshot and make an _uchhh_ noise without really thinking about it.

“What was that all about?” Even asks with an arched eyebrow I’m beginning to realize is a patented and perfected move of his.

“Nah it’s just. Ugh. It’s a kind of long story.”

“We’ve got 5 whole minutes. Actually make that 4 minutes and 47 seconds…”

I smile at him and he smiles back and I begin to feel my annoyance with Sana slip away under his attentive (and very blue-eyed) gaze.

“Ok, so. Yeah. My friends and I usually go splitsies on greens. Saves money to buy in bulk, right? So we were at a party at Eva’s last weekend—she’s the other group leader in the hat—and I told the guys I’d hold our bag since they were all being totally paranoid about it. I don’t live with my parents, so I was like, cool, no problem, I’ll hold it this time. And then of course the cops show up to break up the party and I have to stash it at Eva’s for safekeeping. But my best buddy Sana there saw me, took the bag from my hiding spot and is now using it to blackmail me and my friends into joining the friggin’ kosegruppa. I mean, I can barely heat up a Pop Tart, let alone bake scones or whatever.”

I look at Even to gage his reaction and he busts out laughing. I laugh too at the whole absurdity of the situation.

“Wow, I’m impressed. Sana is fucking badass. The Nissen baking club does not mess around apparently.”

“Yeah I feel like I’m in a cross between _Narcos_ and _Glee_. Not that I’ve ever seen _Glee_.”

“Right, of course not.”

“No seriously, this whole drama club slash cozy cooking shit? Not my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“This, basically,” I smile and nod my head toward the joint I’m holding.

“Well we’d better get back in there if you want you and your friends’ shit back, huh?”

“Looks like. I’m a little nervous about what other ‘love exercises’ Vilde has planned…”

“Well it looks like we’re partners so…the rest of the meeting just got a lot better,” he says as he stubs out the last bit of the joint and starts heading toward the door. As if he he didn’t just say the one thing that would make all the blood rush to my face (and other body parts)! He glances back over his shoulder and says, “You coming or what?”

Really, who is this guy?

As we head back inside I try to keep the stupidly giddy feeling spreading over the whole inside of my body from showing too much on my face. But never play poker with me; I’ve always had a horrible tell. 

* * *

“Ok everyone! Let’s get started again now that everyone has their partner figured out. I’ve got several more fun team building and trust exercises and get-to-know-you games in store!” Vilde is so excited about all these exercises she is practically vibrating like a hummingbird during mating season.

She instructs us all to stand in a circle. Even is standing to my right and I’m praying that she doesn’t tell us to all hold hands and squeeze or some unthinkable horror like that. Really anything but that. I mean, not that I would mind touching Even’s hand, or any part of him really, but I can’t hold his hand in front of everyone here. No fucking way.

“This is called The Circle Sit Game! It builds trust and community and is very simple and fun! Tighten up the circle so you are all really close together. Yup that’s it. Now make a quarter turn to your left. Stand even closer now. When I count to three, everyone is going to sit down. You should be able to rest on the knees of the person behind you and the whole circle will support itself…”

The group erupts into giggles once they realize the point of the game is to basically sit on each other’s laps.

This isn’t happening. There’s no way this is happening. 

“…And then when I count to three again everyone will take a step with your left foot and the whole circle will walk together. Get it? Ok!!! Any questions?”

Even taps my shoulder, raises an eyebrow and grins. I know my face is bright red but I am pretending it is not.  

A random 1st year girl who came in with Emma (I think?) is to my left and she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders as if to say “What can ya do?”. I know what I can do: run away. Feign a sudden terminal illness? Anything but sit on his lap. I am praying to the unwanted boner gods to stay the hell away from me right now.

“Here we go. One…two…three…”

Too late to run away.

We all sit down amidst fits of laughter and a lot of ‘ _woooahh_ ’. Miraculously, the circle holds its shape but is a bit wobbly. A few people lean toward the ground to steady themselves but no one topples. Even steadies himself by putting his hands on my waist. I jolt like a spooked horse and almost ruin it for the whole circle. He leans close and says into my ear, “Steady, I gotcha.”

I want to die. Maybe I am already dead? Is this heaven or hell? I really can’t tell the difference.

Vilde practically squeals, “Great job everyone! Now let’s see if the whole circle can move together. Start with your left foot. One…two…three…go!”

Now this part is actually funny to see us all inching along like a defective caterpillar. I turn to look back at Even and he is cracking up like everyone else. I relax a little bit and enjoy the feel of him touching me. It might be the one and only time I sit on a hot dude’s lap. Who the hell knows?

The group slowly makes a half-circle rotation before Vilde takes pity on us and calls the end of the game. If you would even call it a game. She tells us all to stand up and a few people land on the floor instead, which prompts another round of full-force giggling from the group.

Once we’ve stood up Even leans down and whispers in my ear, “Remind me to thank Vilde later for her choice in group bonding exercises. I like how she thinks.”

I cover my face with my hand and shake my head in a scoffing way but I am literally tingling all over my body from where I felt his breath close on my skin. This is definitely new. Don’t think I’ve ever tingled before. WTF?

Vilde claps to get the group’s attention and says, “Great job everyone!! I am so impressed! That exercise showed how important it is we stick together and move as a team, right? Ok, moving on. Next one is super fun! It’s called The Body Lift. We will split into two groups. One person will lay on the floor and each member of the group is responsible for lifting a part of that person’s body. Gradually you will lift them all the way up over your heads and walk around the room a bit. Sort of like body surfing at a concert but in a very safe and controlled manner. This exercise also promotes trust and team work!”

This one actually seems pretty fun. (Though I’m not quite sure what any of this has to do with baking?).

We get into our team and start lifting our group members and by the time it’s Even’s turn I feel confident enough that we’re probably not going to drop him or anything totally embarrassing like that. But he's so tall that I’m worried 6 people is not going to be enough to lift him.

“Should we recruit Vilde and Sana to help us lift you? Since you are just a smidge bigger than the rest of us. What are you, like 7 feet?”

He jabs me in the shoulder, but in a good-natured way. “You love it. But...I hate to admit it but you might be right.”

We grab the extra girls to help us. I’m positioned to hold up his torso (which is about 10 feet long). When we raise him up, he keeps his hand on my shoulder the whole time. For just a second he cranes his neck forward and our eyes lock. “I gotcha,” I say. Quiet so I think he's the only one who hears me. He leans his head back, smiles, lifts his arms up and whoops with abandon as we parade him around the room.

When it’s my turn to get lifted, Even is holding my thigh. This is both exhilarating and terrifying. I shut my eyes and try to not feel weird about all these sets of hands digging and jabbing into my body and just enjoy the feeling of showing gravity who’s boss. I feel like an astronaut floating in the space station, if only for a few minutes. But that could also have a little bit to do with the weed Even and I smoked outside. Or just Even himself. Who knows?

“Excellent work everyone!! Wow!! I hope that exercise illuminated how we are all needed to lift each other up, both metaphorically and literally. For the next one, each duo needs to grab one of these bandanas for a blindfold.”

I get a slight stabbing feeling in my stomach. I really don’t know what to expect next. Blindfold??

She goes on, “This a simple trust building exercise. One of you will be blindfolded and the other will lead you around for a few minutes. Make sure you give clear instructions so your partner stays safe and doesn’t bump into anything. We can use the hallways and you can go out into the courtyard if you want as well. Everyone should meet back here in 10 minutes. By that time I’ll have everything set up for the last exercise!”

Even grabs a blindfold and says close to my ear, “You know I think Vilde definitely has a secret kinky side. You want to go first?”

And just like that I am beet red again. “Fuck it. Blindfold me.”

Darkness descends over my vision and I have to say, it is totally fucking disorienting.

I listen for Even’s voice to guide me. 

“Ok, so we’re going to take about 15 steps forward and then we’ll go through a doorway. Sound good?” 

I nod.

I move my body forward and feel like I’m going to trip with every step. Time seems to stretch and my other senses are especially keyed in. I almost fall over something and then Even takes my hand to steady me.

“Sorry, I didn’t see that purse on the floor. I gotcha now.”

His hand in mine, on mine, feels really good. Not too soft, not too rough. Being blindfolded makes it ok that we’re doing this, holding hands. Half of the people in the group can’t see us anyway, they are blindfolded themselves. I listen for his voice and I think I can hear his breathing but am not 100% sure. He’s leading me to the doorway to the outside courtyard; I know this once I feel a cool breeze hit my skin and hear the door squeak open. I take a step and register the difference between inside and outside air and I gulp in the October night. It feels chillier out here than it did before, but that might just be because my skin is about 50 degrees warmer now.

“Ok, we’re going to keep walking straight for about 20 paces then turn left.”

“Ay Ay Captain.”

“How do you feel?”

“Umm…ok I guess? I mean it’s really weird to feel like you’re a toddler again and don’t know how to walk without being a little shaky. But otherwise, can’t complain.”

“Do you want me to let go of your hand?”

“Umm…You can keep it like it is. Don’t want to trip and bust my face open on the cement.”

He laughs and I wonder if he knows the real reason I don’t want to let go of his hand.

“Ok left now. We’re going to sit down in about 10 steps.”

He stops me at our destination and I put my other hand down to feel around under me as I lower myself to sit. My hand feels worn-in wood. We’re at the bench again.

“Hey, I recognize this bench.”

“It’s our spot after all,” he says. Can he see my face in the dark out here? I really hope not.

Once we're seated I say, “Ok, you can untie me now. I think I’ve built up enough trust tonight to last for the rest of my life.”

He laughs and I feel his arms around the area of my face, reaching to the back of my head. I can feel him breathe, I can smell him and feel his presence so acutely it’s almost like I can see him through the blackness of the blindfold. Rather, like I can see his image perfectly in my mind’s eye though he is little more than a stranger to me. But he doesn't feel like a stranger anymore.

He’s fiddling with the knot, trying to untie it.

“Damn I really worked this knot tight, sorry.”

I reach my hands to the back of my head to where the knot is and now my hands are on his hands. My heart flip-flops at the contact but I don’t move my hands off of his. 

He says, “Either I use my teeth to try and untie this thing or we pull it down. You pick.”

“Umm…pulling down sounds safer?”

“Ok tada!”

“Eureka!” I say at the same time as he pulls the blindfold off my eyes and down around my neck. For the first second that I open my eyes, my mind is completely blank. It takes a second for the world to come back into focus, both visually and mentally. His hands are still holding the blindfold and he is still fiddling with the knot. Our faces are much closer than I thought they were when I had the blindfold on. He is glowing. My chest hurts. I am hot everywhere and maybe also a little nauseous.

“Wow, I think I just had some vertigo or something. I feel really weird.”

He looks up from the knot. He’s looking straight into me, through me, and I know something then. I want to kiss him and I think he knows I want to kiss him, too. How can he not know when I feel it transmitting out from me like a morse code signal traveling across the Atlantic Ocean:-.- .. ... ... / -- . / -. --- .-- (KISS ME NOW).

“Sorry about this knot,” he says again. I put my hands over his, around my neck, pretending to try and undo it again, too. Our fingers are dancing around each other.

“’S ok. Just means you might not get your turn to be blindfolded. And I’ll have to roll with this whole bandana-sporting cowboy look from now on.”

He laughs. “I’d let you lead me, even without the blindfold,” he says.

THIS. GUY. IS. SO. FUCKING. SMOOTH.

I am blushing. I am a 12-year-old girl.

Fuck it.

I lean in, wrap my hands around his jaw, and kiss him.

Amazingly, he kisses me back.

It’s just a quick kiss. Because I’m nervous about anyone from the group seeing us. And because I actually just kissed Tall Mysterious Stranger Guy and am now teetering between the edge of elation and wanting to crawl under a rock and hide for the next one hundred years. But it’s the best thing I’ve ever done, hands down, no question.

I stand up and head back toward the door and say over my shoulder, “You coming or what?”

And still more amazingly, he follows after me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thank you Strangeristalking for the prompt for this chapter!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9984170/comments/99626496)  
>     
> If you have any kiss chapter ideas, send them my way!! I love prompts!


	8. The Halloween Karaoke Contest Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

  _In this world they kiss on the night of the Halloween party  
_

* * *

“Can you stop babysitting me? I mean it, stop monitoring me.”

I didn’t think it was possible for this night to nosedive into even more awkwardness, but Even just went ahead and took it up a notch to a whole new squirmy level. I am suddenly 16 again third-wheeling it on the sidelines of one of Eva and Jonas’ fights. I hated that feeling. Hate it still.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Sonja stands up and puts her wine down with a thud that makes the liquid swirl around the sides of her glass.

“Into the hall and to the right,” I tell her though she is practically already out of the room.

After a second Emma gets up and follows after her. What’s with girls always making bathroom trips a group activity? Not that I’m upset that Even and I are alone together now finally, but the silence in the room is the heavy overbearing kind. I need to fill it with something other than Sonja’s passive aggressive ghost.

“I heard there will be lots of people at the party.” That inane comment should definitely get me conversationalist of the year award.

“What time is it?”

“Hm?”

“What time is it?”

“21:21.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Let’s get out of here.” Even takes a long swig of this beer and stands up, suddenly buzzing with energy.

“Where?”

Is he being serious?

“Anywhere.” He heads for the door. “Hurry up!”

I have no choice. Of course I’m going to follow him, it’s not even a question.

* * *

 

We step out onto the street. I feel nervous and excited—my stomach is all churny and knotted—and I’m filled with adrenaline like we either just got away with or are about to embark on a crime.

“What next?” I ask and glance back behind my shoulder at the front door, wondering if the girls could have possibly followed us out. But no, they’re probably still in the bathroom.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“You have a bike?”

“Yeah, it’s locked up over there.”

We go over to the bike rack and there’s another bike leaning against Even’s. A cruiser type with a front basket. I wonder if it is Sonja’s and then banish Sonja from my brain. Emma, too. I know it’s selfish but I need to make them off-limits in order to not feel shitty about what we just did. What we're about to do.

Even unlocks his bike and says, “Hop on.”

I mount the rear rack. I’ve done this with Jonas a million times before. So why does this feel like the most important thing I’ve ever done?

He pushes off and we’re going going gone. A breeze rustles through my hair and even though we’re on a flat street I have the same weightless feeling as if we’re cruising downhill.

“This is so much better out here. Damn I was getting so claustrophobic in there,” Even says over his shoulder to me.

We only make it down half a block and then we have to wait for the light to change at the intersection at Hausman’s Gate. A group of people at the crosswalk (also in Halloween costumes) shout “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!” at us. This cracks Even up and he hollers “God bless you!” back at them.

We kick off again. “I hope you’re not going to get some sort of savior complex because of your costume,” I say to him. I have to lean close to his ear in order for him to hear me, which makes it weirdly intimate even though I am speaking pretty loudly and we're not making direct eye contact.

“Oh I definitely am. I’m basically omnipotent right now.”

“Omnipotent? Really?”

“Yeah. Like you are all my little pawns.”

“Great, so you are like…what’s that movie? _Clash of the Titans_? Where all the Greek gods are playing around with humans on a little chess board.”

“Exactly. Zeus and I are tight. Who are you supposed to be again? Julius Caesar?”

“Whichever one of those Roman guys was with Cleopatra.”

“You could also be Mark Antony then.”

“Yeah but not J-Lo’s ex. The other one. The dead one.” This gets a big laugh from him.

“And here I thought you were a Latin American pop star this whole time.”

“That’s probably because of my sick salsa moves.”

“I would pay good money to see you salsa dance.”

“Yeah, well my hips don’t lie so get ready for that.”

“Gladly.” He smiles over his shoulder at me and our eyes meet and even though he is wearing that stupid white wig he looks fucking cute as hell. The bike swerves a little bit and I brace myself on his shoulders for a second. He turns his head back to the road. “Julius Caesar and Mark Antony both had a thing with Cleopatra, actually.”

“Nice.”

“Well you know those Romans were pretty open-minded. Bet there were some hot threesomes.”

“They don’t teach you _that_ in World History.”

“Too bad, it would be properly educational." He pauses again at a traffic light and turns around to face me. "Since I am God tonight you know what that means, right?”

“Umm? Do I want to know?”

“You have to do whatever I say.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that's the 11th commandment: Thou shalt do whatever Even tells you to. Sorry, I don't make the rules." 

“What if I only do what you say if you speak through a burning bush.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah I told you, tonight I am all-powerful. Expect some miracles.”

The thing is, the way he says it, I can’t help but believe him.

* * *

 

We pass over the Akerselva River and he pauses the bike.

“Let’s take the river walk instead,” he says and loops down around to the tree-lined pathway that follows the river, below the main road.

Once we’re on the path he stops the bike again and hops off.

“I don’t know about a burning bush per se but I’ve got something else we can burn.”

He pulls a joint and lighter out of the top of his sock. 

“You just couldn’t wait to say that line, could you?”

He smiles and we sit down on a nearby bench. He lights up, takes a drag and passes it to me. I inhale and hold it in. All my nervousness from before melts away as I feel the hit slide into my bloodstream. I look at him in his costume and exhale and laugh and cough at the same time. 

“What’s so funny?”

“I just can’t take you seriously in that wig.”

“What’s wrong with my wig?”

“You really want me to answer that? Everything is wrong with that wig.”

“I like it. It makes me feel…powerful.”

“Oi. Well I like your regular hair better.”

“Oh yeah? You like my hair?”

“Fuck off.”

“What else do you like about me?”

I take another drag, let the buzzy rush wash over me.

“Well I like that you seem to have an endless supply of weed on hand. Or on foot I should say. That’s very likable.”

“Wow. Shamelessly exploiting God for his weed, I feel used. Ok fine, I’m taking the wig off. But that doesn’t mean I’m not God anymore. You still have to do what I say.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it.”

“Well what did you have in mind?” He levels me with his eyes and I feel my cheeks burn. Hopefully it’s too dark for him to notice.

“What do you think about…a little swim in the river?”

“No fucking way.”

“Come on, it will be fun.”

“If freezing your ass off and getting arrested is your idea of fun, then sure sign me up.”

“Ok, maybe you’re right. Let’s keep walking. I’m sure inspiration will strike me.”

“That’s what I’m nervous about.”

We each take another drag and then he stumps out the half-joint, puts it back in his sock, and collects his bike. We head along the river path and he sees something in the distance that must give him an idea because now he is smirking at me.

“What?” I ask, all wary-like (for show of course).

“You know that’s Bakka over there?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s this karaoke bar right across from it my friends and I would go to sometimes after school. Want to go check it out?”

“Karaoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Like singing in front of people?”

“That’s the basic definition of karaoke, yeah.”

“I don’t sing.” (Ok, I actually really like to sing. But not in public. And especially not in front of the guy I’ve been trying really hard to _not_ make a total idiot of myself in front of).

“You don’t swim, you don’t sing. What _do_ you do?” He says it like it’s a dare.

“I do stuff.”

“Hmm. Stuff.”

“Ok fine we can go but I’m not singing in front of the whole bar.”

“They have private rooms, too.”

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

“We’re going. God has decreed it. No backing out now.”

We cross a little bridge and he locks up his bike. There’s a chalkboard sign outside the bar that reads: **SYNG Halloween Karaoke Contest!! 21:30-22:30 Tonight Only! Winner Gets 1 Hour Free in Private Room!**

Even looks at the sign, then looks at me, and his whole face cracks open in a huge smile.

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head before he can even say anything.

“I can’t believe this. It’s fate. We’re doing this contest.”

“Um…you can do the contest and I can watch and provide moral support.”

“We’ll see about that. Let’s go in.”

We enter the bar. My ears are immediately assaulted by a very loud and very out-of-key rendition of “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers being performed by a very drunk group of girls in skimpy costumes.

Even goes over to talk to the MC person with the sign-up list while I check out the scene. There’s a pretty good-sized crowd; I scan the faces and I don’t see anyone I know, which is a huge relief. Even comes back, grinning ear to ear.

“Ok, it’s open sign-up until 22:30 and then they'll announce the winner. I signed us up for a slot. We're on in 30 minutes.”

If I had a drink I would have spit it out. “ _We_?”

“We.” He flutters his eyebrows at me in a way that he knows is charming to the point of irresistible. Damn him.

“Fuck. Can we at least drink first before I publicly humiliate myself?”

He laughs and takes my hand to drag me to the bar. He orders us two beers. Another person has gone up and is doing a pretty decent job of not royally massacring “Friday I’m In Love” by The Cure.

We find a table close enough to watch the action. I pound my beer back.

“Ok, we’re really doing this? What did you have in mind to sing?”

“I was thinking to keep to the night’s theological theme…Either “One of Us” or “Like a Prayer”. But they’re in keys for a woman. So maybe “Take Me to Church” instead. Do you know it?”

I bust out laughing. “Wow, you really are taking this whole God act to the next level. Jeez. Yeah, I think I know it. But mostly just the chorus part. That’s a pretty hard song, you sure you can handle it?”

He knocks my shoulder in mock offense. “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Just be prepared to have your mind blown. Here’s the plan. If you sing the choruses with me I’ll handle the rest. And I might do a little improvising so be warned. Nail those choruses and we’ve got this in the bag.”

“You better order me another one of these.”

I sling back the rest of my beer in two gulps and we listen to a warbly crooner do their best Chris Isaak impression of “Wicked Game”. Even leans close to my ear to sing along with the chorus and when I hear his voice I start to feel pretty good about our chances—if not of winning then at least not making total asshats of ourselves. He’s got a great voice. Why am I not surprised? He's got a great everything. (Except maybe taste in Halloween costumes).

Next up is a passable rendition of “Ms Jackson”, which I know all the words to, so I confidently rap along with lots of over-the-top hand motions in Even’s general direction. My reward for being an imbecile is the smile that doesn’t leave his face the whole song.

The next person to go up is actually really good. It’s a girl dressed as a cheerleader doing “Cheerleader” by OMI. Gotta give her props for staying on theme. She's making eye contact with another girl at the front of the crowd who is smiling and dancing like crazy. The performer knows how to use her hips, too. The crowd around the informal stage is dancing and eating it up. Even stands up and starts doing these rolls with his shoulders and hips. I think they are mostly for my benefit since he keeps on looking back at me and smiling. I’m feeling buzzed enough from the weed and beer that I consider possibly maybe getting up too but I chicken out.

Even sits back down at our table and says, “We’re up after three more songs. You feel ready?”

I get a sudden bout of nervous butterflies. “Yeah, I’m just going to go to the bathroom real quick.”

“We’ll be great.” He squeezes my shoulder as the next person starts in with a bombastic performance of “Hjerteknuser” by Kaizers Orchestra, which the whole bar seems to sing along to at full volume.

In the bathroom I splash a little water on my face. I’m hot, itchy and nervous but sort of excited, too. I never thought I would have ended up in a karaoke bar dressed as Julius Caesar about to sing in front of a whole crowd with the boy I’m so into I would probably do almost anything he asked, dressed as God or no. I’m that far gone for Even. I look at myself in the mirror and blow some air out of my cheeks before going back into the bar. A full-throated man is singing (but mostly screaming) “Roxanne” with a whole lot of enthusiasm (if not accurate pitch).

When I get back to our table I see that Even has put the God wig back on.

“The wig is back! Why?” I groan.

“This wig is going to take our performance over the winning edge.”

“You sure you can sing without it, like, covering your mouth?”

He pulls the beard part down below his chin and winks at me. Or I think it’s supposed to be a wink, but it’s more like a half-wink, like no one taught him how to wink properly. I add it to one of the many things that make him so fucking cute I can’t stand it.

The MC says, “Next up, we’ve got Isak and Even. Give them a hand everyone!”

“Here goes nothing,” I say as we head up.

We each grab a mic and I stand off to the side. There’s no way I’m getting up in the middle until the last possible minute.

The track starts up and Even keeps his back turned to the audience at first, all dramatic. He doesn’t need to even look at the lyrics on the screen. Damn he knows what he’s doing.

 _“My lover's got humor_  
_He's the giggle at a funeral_  
_Knows everybody's disapproval_  
_I should've worshipped him sooner_

 _If the heavens ever did speak_  
_He's the last true mouthpiece_  
_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_  
_A fresh poison each week”_

My eyes are glued to the lyrics screen so I don’t get freaked out. So it takes me a second to realize he’s singing over his shoulder to me and he’s changed all the _she’s_ in the song to _he’s_. My stomach clenches but I meet his eyes. His voice is thick and smooth like honey but strong.

_"We were born sick," you heard them say it_

_My church offers no absolutes_  
_He tells me, "Worship in the bedroom."_  
_The only heaven I'll be sent to_  
_Is when I'm alone with you_

 _I was born sick_  
_But I love it_  
_Command me to be well”_

He slowly turns around to face the crowd and he raises his non-mic hand up and looks toward the heavens. I actually get a little shiver down my spine listening to him.

_“Aaay. Amen. Amen. Amen.”_

He gestures me to come closer to him. I do. Right before the chorus starts up he flings his wig and beard off and throws it at the crowd. Everyone cheers and hollers. He is a friggin’ karaoke diva! I sing the chorus with him and stare right into his eyes.

 _“Take me to church_  
_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_  
_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_  
_Offer me that deathless death_  
_Good God, let me give you my life”_

When the 2nd verse begins up, he keeps singing while smoothly placing the hand-held mic into the mic stand like he does this all the time.

 _“If I'm a pagan of the good times_  
_My lover's the sunlight_  
_To keep the Goddess on my side_  
_She demands a sacrifice”_

Now he’s unbuckling the belt around his white tunic. My eyes go wide when he throws it dramatically down to the floor. The cheering at this point is getting out of control.

 _“Drain the whole sea_  
_Get something shiny_  
_Something meaty for the main course_  
_That's a fine-looking high horse_  
_What you got in the stable?_  
_We've a lot of starving faithful_

 _That looks tasty_  
_That looks plenty_  
_This is hungry work"_

Just before we kick in for the next round of the chorus, with one smooth gesture he crosses his arms and lifts his white tunic over his head so now he is in his white t-shirt and white leggings. This is some _Magic Mike_ type shit. He smiles at me as I join him for the chorus.

 _“Take me to church_  
_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_  
_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_  
_Offer me that deathless death_  
_Good God, let me give you my life”_

I’m right there with the crowd, I can’t wait to see what he’s going to do next. So when he grabs the mic off of the stand and takes my hand so we are standing face to face for the next part I almost forget that we are in full view of the whole bar, that everyone can see us. It's just a performance, right? He places his hand on my cheek. My face burns.

 _“No Masters or Kings_  
_When the Ritual begins_  
_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_

 _In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene_  
_Only then I am human_  
_Only then I am clean”_

Now he’s down on his knees, arms raised heavenward, eyes closed, like he’s about to receive absolution on behalf all of us. He looks painfully beautiful.

_“Ooh oh. Amen. Amen. Amen.”_

I start in with the next “ _Take me to church”_ but I realize I’m singing alone. He jumps up to his feet and nods at me, encouraging me to keep going without him. I keep going.  
  
_“I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_  
_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_  
_Offer me that deathless death_  
_Good God, let me give you my life”_

For the final chorus he’s singing something else on top of my line. It’s “Like a Prayer”, layered over perfectly with the chorus.

 _“Take me to church / Life is a mystery_  
_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife / Everyone must stand alone_  
_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_  
_Offer me my deathless death / I hear you call my name_  
_Good God, let me give you my life / And it feels like home_ ”

We're staring into each other, I’m out of breath. There’s cheering from the crowd and I can’t stop smiling at him.

He picks up his discarded wig, belt and tunic, takes a quick bow and we make our way back to our table.

“Where the hell did you learn all those friggin' striptease moves?”

“I may or may not have taken a burlesque dancing class once.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Hand to God.” He says and raises his hand. I laugh at his dumb pun.

“If you didn’t just win that thing for us then God is dead. End of discussion.”

We’re back sitting at the table and I’m noticing now he’s getting a lot of flirtatious eyes his way, from men and women alike. His hand is on the table. I want so badly to put mine on top of his.

I lean close to him and say, “You were really amazing, seriously. I didn’t know I was going up there with the Freddy friggin’ Mercury.”

He laughs and says, “You can really sing yourself.” I swat my hand in a _nah_ gesture.

“That was just screaming. Anyone can scream.”

“Well you scream with finesse.” He bumps my shoulder with his arm. I feel it go all the way down to my toes.

“Thanks,” I say. I know I’m blushing but am going to pass it off as a post-performance flush.

“There’s still going to be another 20 minutes or so before they announce the winner. Want to step out for a second? I’m burning up.”

“Yeah sounds good.”

We make our way back to the river. His cheeks are pink and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. This one strand of hair is falling lazily over his eyes and I’m itching to twirl it through my fingers. We sit down on a bench and our arms and legs touch. I see that his bare arms are covered in goosebumps.

“You’re not cold?” I ask.

He shakes his head and smiles. I lean forward onto my elbows and make eye contact with the river, not him. I’m not sure why I can’t look at him when just a few minutes ago we were singing our hearts out to each other.

We’re silent for a minute, stealing glances, until he pulls the rest of the joint out of the top of his sock. He passes it to me and our fingers touch for a little longer than is probably necessary.

We each take a few drags and he asks, “Want to do a shotgun?”

I turn to him. I nod. My heart is going crazy.

He relights the joint and inhales deeply. I lean in. Our lips are less than inch apart now. He blows out and I inhale his smoke and our lips touch briefly, like a flash of lightening. I hold the smoke in, and when I exhale his lips are still close to mine. And then closer. And then even closer. And then there's no space between us at all. Our lips collide and then it's not just a flash of lightening, it's the whole heart of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the news that they just filmed at a karaoke bar for season 4! If you have any prompt ideas feel free to leave them in the comments! xoxoxo


	9. The Practice Kiss // Alternating 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss on the night of Emma's house party_

* * *

**_i. Isak_ **

These bouncer-wannabe guys must be aspiring to play yuppy vampire sidekicks in a _Twilight_ spinoff or something. It’s a fucking house party and they’re acting like they are God’s gift to this doorway. We just got here and I’ve already had enough of their bullshit. Everyone’s bullshit. I’ve had enough of this night and enough of my friends and enough this lung-crushing constriction inside like I can barely breathe and a trash compactor has pounded what’s left of my guts and heart into a rusty heap of worthless scrap metal. I want to go home and turn off all the lights and sleep. I want my body to collapse into dreamless nothing but I can’t because my heart—which yesterday was a reverse mushroom cloud imploding in on itself—still stubbornly insists on beating on and on like the pathetic stupid machine it is.

I’m ready to say fuck it and turn around and go back home. And then I see him and a riot erupts inside me.

My pulse is a hammer, my heart is a flame thrower. He’s shining so bright in front of me it hurts and I can’t look away. His name, perched on the tip of my tongue, threatens to claw its way out of my throat. But I’m silent.

_I don’t know, but things might have moved along a little too quickly…I know it’s my fault, but I need time, sorry._

He’s inside the house, so close, only half a room away but it’s like I’m seeing him through the false mirror of a detective’s interrogation room. If I screamed out his name until my throat was ragged and raw and if I pounded on the glass until my hands bled he would never know it. One second he is greeting a friend and then the party swallows him up and steals him away from me. Just like that, he’s gone. Again.

No.

No.

No.

I have to reach him.

But first I have to convince the door dicks to let me inside.

“Can you just let me in?”

“Why would I let you in?”

I hate this guy. I hate his drawling voice and his pretentiously long hair that is obviously trying to make up for his premature receding hairline.

“My name is Isak and I’m in the second year. I know Emma. She’s in the first year. Just let me talk to her.”

“And her last name is?”

Why is this asshole speaking so slowly? I need to get inside, I can’t stay here listening to him drone on all night while Even passes by me like a ghost ship in the night.

“Her name is Emma Larzen. I know her well. Just let me in! And meanwhile these guys can wait out here. And then I’ll come right back.”

Now I’m inside and there’s music and bodies grinding up against each other and the only body I want is gone. It’s too hot and too loud I’m squeezing between faceless strangers and I don’t know what I’ll do if I bump into him but I just need to find him and be close to him. Even if it’s needy and desperate, even if he tells me the same thing he said in his text, I need to hear him say it to my face that he doesn’t want me.

I turn a corner into a mass of dancing bodies. But beyond them, just out of reach, I see him again. He’s standing on a landing by the fireplace, like he’s on an altar or stage. He’s nodding his head to the dance beat and he looks so beautiful I want to cry.

Someone bumps into me. It’s Emma. Fuck.

“What are you doing here?” Her mouth is a hard shockingly pink line.

“Hey listen…it was…it was really shitty of us to leave you and Sonja on Halloween. I get it if you think I’m an asshole.”

“That’s not the reason I think you’re an asshole, Isak. I think you’re an asshole because you let me be interested in you, even though you’re gay. We’re in 2016. Get out of the closet.”

She pushes past me forcefully. Everything stops for a second.

Then my brain tailspins into a free fall and the room is spiraling in slow motion. I’m sweating and nauseous. She knows. She knows about me and Even. She said the words I’ve never dared to speak aloud. But coming from her mouth they weren’t the right words. They will never be the right words because she has no right to those words. No. Those words are mine alone.

And besides, she’s wrong.

I’m not gay. I’m not anything. I’m nothing. I’m gone. I’m a ghost.

Because right in front of me, Even is kissing Sonja. And my vision has gone black.

 

* * *

**_ii. Even_ **

Sonja’s kissing me before I can even say hello properly. I’m kissing her back like I always do and I can tell immediately that she’s sloppy drunk. Her mouth and lips are bitter with wine and when I pull away from her the dark eyes glaring back at me are unfocused but glistening hard. The warm smile that greeted me a second ago is gone.

“What?” she asks with a pout. Her eyelids flutter and I think this is supposed to be seductive but coming from her it seems all wrong. That’s not who we are. We don’t play games. She crashes her lips back into mine and then she’s nibbling my ear and sucking my neck, marking me. I know these past few weeks haven’t been easy for her and it hurts me to see her this way. She’s an open wound and it’s all my fault.

“How much have you had to drink?” I ask her.

“ _Stop monitoring me_.” The way she says it is like a slap in the face and she knows it.

“I’m going to get you some water. Then let’s get out of here. I have a headache.”

“Fine. Leave. Again. But I’m staying.”

“Sonja—” I cup her face in my hands, look into her eyes, and try to find her.

She leans in to kiss me again and I recoil. I don’t mean to, it just happens. Her mouth, the wine, it’s too much.

“I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you dare do that. Don’t apologize and then make me feel bad for wanting to kiss my own boyfriend. You know what, Even, why don’t just do whatever the hell you want to do? Because that’s what you’ll do anyway. But tonight I’m off-duty. So instead of a water please get me another drink.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“According to who? You? The last time I checked I have a little bit of a better handle on the whole impulse control department.”

She’s never this mean unless she’s really scared for me. I know this, but it doesn’t make her words sting any less.

“I can’t keep doing this, Sonja.”

“Doing what?”

“This. I’m sorry for leaving you on Halloween and for almost kissing Isak. But we didn’t kiss, ok? And it’s not going to be like last time. I promise you. I need you to trust me or we might as well end this now.”

“Is that what you really want? To end it?”

“You know that’s not what I want.”

“How can I be sure? One minute we’re fine and the next you’re talking about taking a break and then you’re begging me to forgive you and now you can’t stand to even kiss me. I’m getting whiplash. And I’m terrified for you, Even. It’s not fair.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Which is why I’d rather be drinking and enjoying myself right now instead of fighting, if you don’t mind. So either you can stay here with me and kiss me or you can leave and we can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Will you get home ok?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know, Sonja. You’re the most capable person I know.”

The fight visibly goes out of her like the air being let out of a balloon. “Just…just text me when you get home, ok?”

“Ok, I will. Have fun.” I lean down and give her a kiss on the forehead. We hug and I know we’ll talk it through tomorrow like we always do.

I make my way through the throngs of people toward the door. On my way out I can’t help but scan the crowd, searching for a tuft of blond curls sticking out of a red snapback. The possibility of seeing him—however small—is the only reason I’m here tonight at all.

I know, I have no right to want that. It’s selfish and wrong to Sonja and wrong to him. But I can’t help the wanting that burns me up from the inside. I want and I want and I want so much that the wanting bursts out of me and spills out of my eyes and nose and mouth, salty as tears and effervescent as hope.

When I step into the cool night air I get a jolt in my stomach because there right outside the house are his three best friends. I look around quickly but don’t see him anywhere. The three of them and also that revue girl Vilde are all huddled together, looking concerned. The boy whose name I think is Matty looks like he might be nursing a fat lip since he’s got an unopened beer can pressed up to it. I’m nervous all of a sudden. Where’s Isak?

I approach them. They don’t seem to register my presence. I clear my throat.

“Hey, you’re Isak’s friends, right? What’s up?”

The cute skater one—Jonah?—gives me an appraising look.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s your name, again?”

“Even.”

“Even, right. From the revue group with Isak, right?”

Vilde looks up then from Isak’s blonde friend she’s been talking too.

“Oh, hi Even. Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, what happened? Is Isak around?”

Jonah—no, that’s not the right name—it’s Jonas. Jonas looks at me again with a slight squint in his eyes like he’s not sure how much he should say. “No dude, he just left. Don’t know what’s up with him tonight. I think he must have gotten into a fight with this girl he’s into or something because when we got here he went in to find her and then he came out all pissed and shoved Mahdi for no reason. He’s never like that. I’ve known him since we were 10 and I haven’t seen him fight anyone, like, ever. And then he just stormed off, no explanation. I’m worried about him.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He headed back that way.”

Jonas points to the street and it’s all I can do to keep from running in that direction as fast as I can.

“Ok, thanks for telling me. I hope he’s ok. If you see him can you tell him…never mind. See you around.”

As soon as I’m far enough away from the group I bolt toward the street in a near panic, hoping he hasn’t gone far. Hoping I’m not the reason he’s fought with his friends. Hoping I’ll be able to find him and explain. Hoping it’s not too late.

But the street is empty and he’s nowhere in sight.

 

* * *

**_iii. Isak_ **

I’m home, in my bed, smoking the last bit of a joint I hope will relax me enough to knock me out into sleep. I’ve got my headphones on and I’m listening to a white noise mix of ocean sounds.

When my parents were still together and the cacophony of their shouting got to be too much, I’d put on this same white noise and imagine myself floating on my back, drifting alone out to the middle of the ocean. Away from all hurt, confusion, and fear. Just me alone, wrapped up in the calm lapping arms of the ocean waves.

It helps a little now, but I’m in danger of sinking. There’s a barrel of rocks inside my chest, weighing me down. I’m struggling to stay calm instead of letting the riot burning inside me erupt into a full blown war. A war where the only casualty would be myself.

Twenty minutes ago I got a text from Even:

_Hi…sorry I’m sure I’m the last person you want to talk to right now. But I just ran into your friends and they said you got into a fight. I’m worried about you. Are you ok?_

Fuck him.

Like he actually gives a shit about me.

I didn’t respond and turned off my phone before I texted back something I knew I’d regret later.

I try to breathe into the ocean sounds but now my mind is racing again. My heart is hammering, thinking about Emma, Emma knowing, Emma talking to Sonja, Sonja talking to Even, Even kissing Sonja, Even almost but not quite kissing me.

Even. Even. Even. Even.

I shut my eyes, listen to the waves, but he’s right there next to me, floating on his back, naked, his skin glowing and his face uplifted to the sun. I try to reach out and grab his hand but he drifts further and further away from me. We’re oceans apart and I’m alone.

Even. Even. Even. Even.

Come back.

No, fuck that. I’m better off alone. Alone is inoculated. Alone is safe.

Even. Even. Even. Even.

Now there’s another noise on top of the ocean’s lull. It sounds sort of like a hail storm. I must be imagining it. I open my eyes and peer behind my orange curtain to see if it’s raining out. The night is still clear. But there’s a click-clack on my window and I realize it’s pebbles.

I look down and Even is standing below my window on the street. He looks up at me and I’ve never been so angry and so relieved to see someone at the same time.

I open the window.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, you didn’t respond to my text. I was worried about you.”

“Well you could have saved yourself the trouble because I’m fine. I just didn’t want to talk to you if you can actually believe that.”

He looks hurt. Good.

“Can we talk?”

I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Talk about what? You almost kissing me, telling me you’re breaking up with your girlfriend, changing your mind and kissing her instead of me? No thanks. Don’t think we have much to talk about.

“I’m trying to sleep. Thanks for checking up on me but I’m fine.”

“Can I come up?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please, Isak. I just want to talk to you.”

His features carved by the streetlight are both angular and smooth. It’s cold enough out that his breath is visible and his cheeks are pink. God, he’s so beautiful. Even when I’m supposed to be hating him I can’t help wanting him more than I can understand. I wonder if there will ever be a time when looking at him will ever feel common place, where one look or raise of his eyebrows won’t send me spinning and my blood singing. I hope not.

“Ok, I’m coming down.”

 

* * *

**_iv. Even_ **

I’m pacing, waiting for him to come down. My heart is doing a chaotic double-time march and I’ve got enough adrenaline coursing through me that I could run ten miles and skydive out of a plane and still not know what to do with all this buzzing nervous energy exploding out of my body.

Now that I’m here and minutes away from seeing him, I’m scared. I don’t know what to say to him, how much to say.

I should tell him everything.

No.

I know I can’t do that.

He deserves to know.

I can’t. Not yet.

I’m a coward. I’m so fucking scared of losing him. I can’t lose him. I was stupid for thinking this would be easy. That it would be easier to cut him off before it got too deep. Before he got hurt. Before I hurt him.

But joke’s on me, because it’s too late for that. Hurting people is just what I do. The sooner he realizes that the better.

I did the right thing, he deserves someone whole.

But he deserves to know why.

I owe him that much.

I just have to open my mouth and say the words.

He has a right to hear those words.

Isak, you don’t want me. You don’t want this. You might think you do, but you’re wrong. You’re better off without me.

Isak, I’m a pre-sprung trap waiting for a trigger.

Isak, I’m a jumble of mismatched wires and mixed-up electric signals.

You don’t want the burden of my brain.

Isak, this is for the best. We’re both better off alone. 

* * *

**_v. Isak_ **

He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets and his left leg is bouncing like crazy. He looks up at me and then back down to the ground, chewing his bottom lip. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. It hurts.

“So, you wanted to talk? Why?” I ask. I wrap my arms around myself. I’m just in my pajamas, hoodie and slippers and sort of wish I’d thought to wear my coat or that we could go inside to where it’s warm. But I can’t do that.

“I uhh…well like I said I was at this party and ran into your friends. They said you were upset.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Silence.

My eyes are stinging in the cold and my ears are ringing. The less I say, the better. The less there will be to regret later.

He looks at me, searching for something, and I harden.

“Listen, I’m sorry I sent that text before. About this thing between us going too fast. Needing time. I know you probably hate me and think I’m an asshole.”

My conversation with Emma comes rushing back to me:

_That’s not the reason I think you’re an asshole, Isak. I think you’re an asshole because you let me be interested in you, even though you’re gay. We’re in 2016. Get out of the closet._

“I don’t think you’re an asshole, Even. I just…I can’t be friends with you.”

“I get it. I’ll go. Sorry for coming here.”

He turns to leave. I know I should let him go. He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ll just get hurt. But I can’t let him leave.

“Wait, Even. I meant I can't be friends with you because I want...Listen, I saw you at the party. Kissing Sonja. That’s why I’m upset, ok? It fucking hurt. And I know she’s your girlfriend and I’m like, this guy you sort of know? So who cares if I see you kiss your girlfriend. It shouldn’t matter, right? But that’s not how it works with me. You matter to me, Even. And I just wish I knew what was going on in your head because I thought you…I thought we….never mind.”

“You don’t want to know what’s going on in my head. You’d hate me. You hate me already.”

“I don’t hate you, Even.”

“But you might, if you really knew me.”

“That’s a risk I’d be willing to take. But you have to let me in. You just can’t keep pulling the rug out from under me every time we get close.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it anymore. Listen, if you love Sonja and want to be with her instead of me, that’s fine. I mean, it would suck but then at least I’d know the reason why. But please just say it to my face. That you don’t…”

I’m crying now. Fuck. I turn my back to him so he can’t see me wipe my eyes and cheeks. I breathe and try to think of the ocean. I’m floating away from Even, from everything, all feelings. And it’s for the best.

* * *

**_vi. Even_**

I can’t stand to see him like this. His back is turned so he doesn’t see me step toward him and wrap my arms around him. He gasps and l hold him tighter. I’m never letting go.

He leans into my chest. I knew I would do this, make him cry. This is the worst feeling in the world. He doesn’t deserve this.

“Just say it, ok. Get it over with,” he says between haggard breaths.

I can’t speak. My tongue is a clumped-up knot in my throat.

He looks up at me and I wipe away a tear from his cheek.

I want to tell him everything but I can’t utter a sound.

Maybe he’ll understand my silence. I hope he does.

“I like you so much, Even. Tell me you don’t like me, too.”

I shake my head. I can’t lie to him, even if it’s for the best.

He leans in, brushes his lips against my jaw line and I shiver. He takes my head in his hands, runs his fingers through my hair and draws our faces even closer. Our visible breath blends together as one in the cold.

* * *

**_vii. Isak_ **

I lean in, ready. His cheeks are cold but his mouth is so close and warm.

I’m ready and we’re so close.

And he pulls away.

I’m stunned and hurt and it must show on my face because he takes my hands and says, “I’m sorry.”

I can’t speak. The shame is creeping back. And the hurt and the anger.

“Fuck this. If you have nothing to say to me then just leave.”

I’m crying again and fumbling to get my keys out of my hoodie and to get away from him, but forever this time. I’ve got the door open when he grabs my arm. I jerk away.

“Wait, Isak. I’m so sorry. I want kiss you. So bad. More than anything. But when we kiss for the first time, I just had this idea. It’s stupid…but I wanted it to be perfect. I don’t want you to be mad at me or…standing in the street in your pajamas.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Perfect how?”

“Like…something spectacular and epic.”

I turn to face him and again here’s that feeling like I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course the reason he doesn’t want to kiss me is because he’s waiting for the perfectly epic moment. Of course.

“Epic? What, like we’re in a rescue helicopter ride overlooking the city after we’ve narrowly escaped getting killed by alien invaders?”

“Something like that. But with no aliens and maybe a little more romantic mood lighting."

“Romantic like a bottle of champagne next to a path of rose petals leading to your bed?”

He actually blushes. I’ve managed to make Even Bech Næsheim blush.

“Ok I’m scrapping the rose petals idea.”

I'm laughing now and just like that my anger is gone. Even wants to kiss me. And he wants it to be perfect. 

I say, “Good because that rose petal trail thing always seems like you’re actually about to get tricked into getting serial-killed.”

“That’s because you’ve watched too many crime shows. Rose petals are always romantic.”

“Hmmph. And don’t you dare think about sneaking up into my room and kissing me while I’m asleep, all creepy Edward Cullen style.”

“But if I managed to climb up to your window and onto your balcony it would be more _Romeo and Juliet_ than Edward Cullen so romance would trump creepy.”

“If you actually managed to climb up to my 2nd floor window I’d be more concerned for your safety than kissing you.”

“What if I know parkour? Getting to your 2nd story window would be easy.”

“Then we’d have even bigger problems because I’d have a boyfriend who was permanently stuck in the early 2000s when parkour was still a thing people talked about.”

 _Boyfriend._ I said the word without thinking about it and now my cheeks are bright red. He takes a step closer to me.

“Would that be so bad? Having a boyfriend who could scale buildings like Spider Man? I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t thought of how I might be able to recreate the upside down Spider Man kiss for our first time.”

I laugh now at the idea of Even creating an elaborate scheme to get us to kiss upside down. “Why are you so hung up on recreating all these famous movie kisses anyway?”

“I just wanted the moment to match what I feel inside when I look at you. I told you before it was stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“When I’m with you it’s like I’m witnessing Haley’s Comet and a meteor shower and a solar eclipse and blue moon all at once. And when you let me kiss you for the first time I wanted you to feel the same thing I do.”

“I do. Feel the same.”

“You do?”

I nod.

“But I don’t need rose petals or comets or helicopter rides. I just need you, ok? So don't disappear anymore, please.”

He looks at me with a half-smile but there’s this glint of sadness in his eyes I’ve never seen before. I instinctively want to close all the space between our bodies, wrap him in my arms and make sure I never see that sliver of sorrow in him ever again.

I tug on his jacket collar and say, “Well if you’re so concerned about our first time being absolutely epic and perfect, we’ll just have to practice first. Relieve the pressure so that when we get to the real one we’ll nail it.”

“So…like preliminaries before the main Olympic event?”

“Exactly. A purely trial run. No keeping score and no judges.”

“Work out all the kinks before the big show stopper.”

“Totally.”

“So when do you want to set up this practice round?”

“I’m thinking right about…now.”


	10. The Masquerade Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in Feb 2016, before the events of season 3, and it diverges in tone a bit from the previous chapters of this piece. I really wanted to do a masquerade scene in homage to "Romeo and Juliet" and I've also been wanting to explore Isak's past and family dynamic.
> 
> possible tw: alcoholism

_In this world, they kiss at a bar on the same night Isak meets Eskild for the first time_

* * *

 

Our toilet is busted and Pappa isn’t around anymore to take care of it so it’s suddenly my job now. Even though I know jack shit about fixing toilets or any of that other so-called handyman/Mr. Fix-It bullshit because guess what? Pappa never bothered to teach me any of that stuff.

When I get home from school Mamma says the water in the toilet has been running all day and when I ask her why she didn’t just fix it herself or hire a plumber she says she’s not letting a stranger into the house who could just steal all her money and attack her and leave her for dead. Instead of arguing I say fine, I’ll take care of it. It’s a toilet, how complicated can it be? I figure the problem is probably just because the stopper in the tank isn’t properly aligned, so I clear off the basket of supposedly good-smelling potpourri that Mamma likes and her little embroidered and framed Bible verse from the top to remove the tank lid. I look into the tank and that’s when I see it. A half-full bottle of vodka.

It takes me a few seconds of staring at it before I even register what I’m seeing. It’s amazing how the brain works, isn’t it? How it can make these totally insane leaps of logic just to protect us from what we don’t want to admit to ourselves. Because my first thought is: maybe this bottle is somehow necessary to keep the toilet functioning? Like this is some first class MacGuyver maneuver on my dad’s part and the reason the toilet is broken now is because the bottle had been keeping some vital piece in place and that’s why he put it there. To fix the toilet, not just to hide the bottle.

My second thought is this and I hate myself for it: he did this because of Mamma. Mamma and her sickness and her fixation with the Bible and Godliness and purity and abstinence. If she wasn’t the way she is, he could have a drink at the end of the day in peace like every normal person does. But there’s a part of me deep down that knows it’s never been just one drink with him. The proof is staring me in the face, semi-submerged in whirring tank water.

I grab a handtowel to gingerly remove the bottle, even though I know that’s sort of irrational because it’s just been sitting in regular water, not pee-and-poop water. But anything involving the inside of a toilet is kind of gross. I put the bottle in the sink and rinse it. (Again, irrational since it’s been sitting in water this whole time). Then I jingle the lever in the tank around until it falls back into place properly. I watch the water rise until the tank is full and the incessant running-water noise finally subsides.

I dry off the bottle and stash it in my hoodie pouch even though I know Mamma is in her room and won’t see me anyway.

I go into my room, lock the door, and take out the bottle. And then I start shaking.

* * *

Pappa left but there are still pieces of him everywhere all over the house. The extra tubes of shaving cream in the bathroom cabinet. The snowsuit and ski boots in the coat closet. The pictures of him I salvaged after Mamma smashed most of the framed photos.

“This is temporary,” he had told me. “I have some things I need to sort out on my own and I can’t do it with your mother being…how she is. It’s not because I don’t love you, Isak. This is strictly between your mother and I. I can’t help her and she refuses to acknowledge she needs help. You see where that leaves me, don’t you? This is for the best and I hope one day you’ll forgive me.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” I said and had refused to speak to him after that. Even though I wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay. _Please, Pappa, I can’t do this on my own._

I open the bottle of vodka and the fumes smash into the inside of my nostrils and I recoil. I take a huge swig anyway. It burns but keeps me from shaking.

I hate him so much. Almost as much as I hate myself.

I stash the bottle away and knock on Mamma’s bedroom door. She doesn’t answer me so I peak in. The lights are off and I see the lump of her body shift slightly in bed. I tell her I fixed the toilet.

“Do you want any dinner?” I ask. “I’ll heat up some soup for you.”

“No thanks, honey. Not hungry. Gonna keep sleeping.”

“Ok, Mamma.”

“Isak?”

“Yeah?”

“ _Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”_

“Good night, Mamma.”

I shut her door and I spend the next hour searching through every nook and cranny in the house for his other possible hiding spots.

I find: two empties in a suitcase in the hallway closet, a half-full wine in the side dresser in the guest bedroom, two full travel-sized whiskey bottles in the pockets of his spare winter coat, an empty covered by latex gloves and sponges in a mop bucket under the kitchen sink, and an empty in his toolbox. And these were the ones he probably just forgot about before he cleared everything out when he was packing up to leave.

* * *

I call my aunt Elise, Pappa’s sister. We’ve always been close and I would stay with her or she would come to our place for extended babysitting weeks a lot growing up. I didn’t realize until later why she did this and how much of the happiness and obliviousness of my childhood I owe to her.

I tell her straight up about the bottles.

“Did you know?” I ask.

“Isak, I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. He wanted to tell you. He told me that many times. But he was ashamed, you understand? And you were under enough stress as it is with your mom. He’s getting help, though.”

“What do you mean, he’s getting help? You mean, like, rehab? He’s in rehab and he didn’t tell me?”

“I’m so sorry, honey. He swore me to secrecy. I thought you were old enough to handle it but he didn’t want...It was hard enough for him to admit to himself he had a problem, let alone his son. But this isn’t the way for you to have found out. I’m so sorry.”

“I guess…part of me already knew, sort of. I mean, it’s not like it was a total shock when I found the bottle in the toilet tank.”

“The toilet? Oh my god, Isak.”

She starts to cry, which makes me cry.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Elise.”

“Don’t apologize, Isak. None of it is your fault.”

“Does Mamma know where he is?”

“No.”

“Can I see him? At rehab?”

“He’s not supposed to see anyone for another week or so. It’s part of the recovery process. Do you want me to come over this weekend? I’ll drive down on Sunday, ok?”

“Ok, yeah. That would be good.”

“I love you, Isak. Your mamma and pappa do, too.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Pappa left but there are still pieces of him everywhere all over the house. His favorite type of ballpoint pens in a cup on his desk. The coat rack he made in college during woodshop that he’s so proud of, even though the legs are wobbly. The album of wedding photos with old-fashioned 4x6 prints nestled in sticky plastic sleeves. And his hidden bottles.

I pour out everything except the vodka, which I fill up into a plastic water bottle. I quietly put all the empty glass bottles into a trash bag and dump it into our neighbor’s outdoor recycling bin so Mamma doesn’t find them and ask me questions. Not that she leaves the house much anyway.

I open Mamma's door and tell her I’m going over to Jonas’ house. If she hears me she doesn’t acknowledge it. I leave her a note anyway, in case she wakes up and worries about where I am.

The silence at home, the silence in Mamma’s room, the silence is what will break me, I know it. I’d take my parents’ screaming bloody murder at each other over the silence that has covered the house like a fog ever since Pappa left. I’d take the shattering of glass over the silent shattering of my heart and Mamma’s.

Did part of her know?

How could she not know?

That Pappa is…about Pappa’s problem.

_Just say it. Stop lying to yourself like he lied to you._

_Pappa is an alcoholic._

_He left you and Mamma and he’s an alcoholic._

_He’s a liar and a hider._

_But he’s trying to get help. He wants to get better._

_He knew he couldn’t live like that anymore._

_I just wish he could have told me._

I grab the vodka-filled water bottle and head outside. I don’t know where I’m going but I can’t stay at home.

* * *

It’s February and freezing so I get on the first bus I see that’s heading downtown.

I just need to be around people. I don’t care where or who.

It’s a Friday night and I know I could call Jonas and we could smoke up together and that would make me feel a little better. But it would also make me feel so much worse.

More than anyone I wish I could call Eva, even just a casual video chat like we used to do all the time would make me feel better. Her parents are separated so I know she’d understand what I’m going through right now. But Eva and I aren’t really speaking anymore. Not after what I did. I fucked up. I’m almost drunk enough to text her everything, how sorry I am, how much I miss her, the real reason I got between her and Jonas like I did. Almost but not quite drunk enough. Thinking about Eva and Jonas makes me feel a little queasy. The heater on the bus is going full blast and I’m sweating and dizzy all of a sudden and definitely feeling all the vodka I’ve been drinking.

I get off at the next stop and the cold air bites at me and is a relief to my feverish skin.

I’m at the Tullinløkka stop, where I sort of already knew I wanted to end up. I walk a few blocks to the strip of bars and dance clubs. Not to go in any of them, just to look, just to be around people. My legs are a little wobbly and there’s a lot of space in my head. Like my thoughts are stretched apart like cotton candy the moment I think them.

I’m not here to think anyway. I’m just here to look.

* * *

I’m standing across the street from this one bar, London Pub, that looks like it has a lot of action going on tonight.

There’s a poster on the outside that’s all purple, green and gold colored:

**Friday Night / Mardi Gras Masquerade / Live Performances and DJ Set / All Ages / 85 kr Cover Includes Free Mask and Beads**

I’ve been standing here for about ten minutes, deciding whether or not to go in, checking my phone to make it seem like I’m waiting for someone.

It’d be nice to be inside, be somewhere warm. I’m sick of this straight vodka, I could order a soda and mix it.

Everyone going in looks older than me. But the sign says all ages. If I see someone my age go in, I’ll go in.

I wait some more and rub my hands together and stomp my feet to de-thaw them a bit.

I’m being stupid. I’m intentionally giving myself frostbite. It’s just a bar. I’ve never been to a Mardi Gras party. And the idea of wearing a mask doesn’t sound so bad. Anonymity sounds really nice actually.

A group of rowdy gay guys passes by me and this one guy glances up at me. His eyebrows furrow for a second and he looks like he’s about to say something but I look down at my phone and then they are all crossing the street to go into the bar.

A few minutes later, a boy who looks to be about my age or a little older steps out of the bar. He’s tall and lanky. He’s wearing a mask that covers half of his face and he leaves it on as he takes out a cigarette and lights up. He leans against the side of the building, one leg up. He’s not wearing a coat or anything, he must still be warm from being inside. Even though his face is half-covered by a mask I can tell he’s so…pretty. I’m not sure if there’s another word for it. I mean, he’s a guy, he’s not like, _feminine_ , but he’s just…

He glances up from his cigarette and looks right at me. I look down at my phone. My pulse is doing a wild unknown dance. I count to sixty and refuse look up from my phone. When I do, he’s gone.

* * *

The bouncer checks my i.d. and marks the top of my hands with two big Xs. He hands me a mask and puts a string of beads around my neck.

“Have fun. And If I see you trying to get anyone in there to buy you a drink I will have the unfortunate job of sending your cute little underage butt on home. Got it?”

I nod, thankful that my bulky winter coat is hiding my water bottle, which I’ve dwindled down to half-full by now. I’m definitely ignoring the sign that says “No Outside Drinks Allowed”.

Then I step inside the bar and am filled with warmth and light.

* * *

The music is strange and disorienting at first until I realize the DJ is spinning dance remixes and hip-hop versions of traditional New Orleans-style jazz parade spirituals like “When the Saints Go Marching In”. I like it. It wasn’t what I expected a bar like this to be playing. I guess I was expecting more Lady Gaga, less Second Line. Masked revelers are packed onto the dance floor going crazy, some people are even swing dancing. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that there are plenty of both guys and girls here. I don’t know why. 

People are kissing and dancing. Seeing all these guys touching each other, in plain sight, in front of everyone, it makes my heart race and constrict and relax all at once, at the same time. Which feels like a strange mix of fear and relief, pleasure and pain. I’m too hot in my winter layers so I pull off my coat and hoodie and hang them up. I stuff the water bottle into the back pocket of my jeans and hope no one official looking notices it.

Most people are wearing masks. I’m still holding mine in my hand, unsure of what to do. It feels weird being one of the only people not wearing a mask so I say _fuck it_ and put it on.

The second the mask is on, it’s like I’m myself and not myself. I’ve never felt more free.

I go up to the bar and wait an insanely long time to order two club sodas with lime. I think maybe a few guys are trying to catch my eye. Eye contact is easier with the mask on for some reason. But I’m not interested in having anyone hit on me, so I make sure the Xs on my hands are super conspicuous. As soon as I have my club sodas I head to the restroom, into a stall. I dump out half the soda into the toilet and pour the rest of the vodka into each glass. I down almost an entire glass then and there.

When I step out of the stall, there he is. The boy from outside. He’s at the urinal and his back is to me, but I know it’s him.

My cheeks are burning from the vodka I just threw back. I’m dizzy and too hot. I wash my hands and splash water on the part of face not covered by my mask.

I pick up both glasses and am about to walk out when the boy approaches the sink and says, “Double fisting? That’s pretty hardcore.”

I gesture toward the Xs on my hands. “It’s just club soda.”

“Right, of course it is.”

Then he honest-to-god takes one of the glasses out of my hands and takes a huge gulp.

He smacks is lips and says, “Well that’s the best _just club soda_ I think I’ve ever had.”

And then he winks at me from behind his mask and heads back into the club.

I’ve barely registered my shock when two guys barge into the bathroom, hands all over each other, and head straight for an empty stall.

I bolt out of there.

I look around the bar for the boy, but he’s vanished. I can’t believe he stole my drink like that! I’m sort of appalled, but I’m also smiling for the first time tonight since I found my dad’s hidden bottles.

* * *

The DJ has shifted away from jazz remixes to more typical club music like Zara Larrson, Justin Bieber, Diplo, Sia, Madonna, Gabrielle, The Spice Girls, Beyonce, Robyn, Britney Spears. Not my type of music—I’d prefer more hip-hop—but I don’t mind it tonight actually. I stick to the edge of the dance floor. Just lean against the wall and watch everyone painted brilliantly by the flashing multi-hued lights. All the shapes, sizes, genders, costumes, colors. Minutes go by and the overwhelmingly loud music and all the vodka makes thinking thankfully impossible. My brain is a wash of pleasant nothing when I feel someone nudge my shoulder. I look up. It’s him. He inclines his head toward the dance floor. I nod, as if in a trance, as if a force outside of myself is nodding on my behalf and deciding yes, this is why you came here tonight. He takes my drink, which I'd been clinging to like a crutch, puts it down on a nearby table, grabs my hand and leads me out to the middle of the dance floor.

* * *

“All of the Lights” by Kanye is playing and my pulse rat-a-tats to the beat.

When we’re in the center of the dance floor, he lets go of my hand.

He spins me around so my back is to him.

His hands are on my hips.

His hips are moving, guiding me.

The knotted fear inside begins to loosen and lift up and out of me, as if pulled by a kite string and launched up into the clouds, into the stratosphere.

My soul has wings and I look at us as if from above, as if I’m floating above the dance floor and looking down at myself and this strange boy whose body is moving and pressing up against mine in time with the beat. This winged part of myself floats up, chasing the spinning disco lights, up and out through the ceiling like a ghost who can pass through walls, up up and out over the city lights and up up up and out into the stars. I say goodbye.

Back on the dance floor, I hear each part of the music separate and together all at once. As if the drums, bass, synths, horns, harmonies and lead vocals are all stacked on top of each other like layers of a cake. I want to take a big bite.

I’m mouthing along to all of Kanye’s verses and waving my arms. I’m smiling so hard I think my face is going to crack down the middle like an egg.

He’s leaning down, his lips are close to my ear.

He’s saying something but I can’t make it out.

“What?”

He cups his hand to my ear and says, “I love this song.”

I shout, “Me too.”

“I can tell.”

I close my eyes and smile, lean into him and let my knees and hips unlock. I feel him feel me, feel his hands on my hips, then feel him brush his hands across my shoulders and down my arms. I want to store this memory away for later: goosebumps, sweat, shivers, nervous thundering heart and all. I know I’ll want to remember this moment for the rest of my life. The first time a boy has touched me like this. _Remember remember remember_.

He spins me around so we are facing each other.

His eyes are glittering obsidian gems behind his mask. His lips perk up into a smile.

He cups his hand to my ear and says, “I’d like to kiss you now. Is that ok?”

I nod.

_Remember remember remember._

He leans in closer. I smell his sweat.

I’m scared when he kisses me I’ll disappear.

But I don’t disappear.

His lips are like salted caramel.

I don’t know how to tell myself it’s ok to want this.

Because I do want this, so much.

I want this electric thrum, this pulsing in my blood calling my deepest secret self up out of the darkness into the fractured spinning light.

I want this so much, it scares me.

Our lips collide and it’s like an electric current. I pull away.

All the alcohol inside me is sloshing around in a dangerous way.

I might be sick.

He must sense something in me turning on itself because he places his hands on my shoulders and rubs them in a comforting way. He leans in close and says with a smile, “You kiss by the book.”

I place my palms on his chest and breathe.

“Need to go drink some water,” I say and stumble away from him back toward the bathroom just in case I do need to be sick.

* * *

I’m so embarrassed.

I’m sitting in the bathroom stall, crying, sweating, trying not to puke.

If there’s one truth in this world it’s that you never actually know how drunk you are until you are sitting on a toilet, watching the bathroom tiles pulse and spin around like you are looking at them through a kaleidoscope. I stare at the floor so long my eyes go cross-eyed.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

How did I end up here?

I breathe my way through a wave of nausea but thankfully don’t actually hurl.

I’m a sweaty mess though.

When I’m pretty sure the worst of my near-sickness has passed, I leave the stall so I can rinse my face off and then leave this bar without him seeing me.

I’m startled when I look in the mirror. I forgot I was wearing a mask. I take it off and look at myself in the reflection. Or I should say, _selves_ , because there are many of me staring back. And all of them are smudgy around the edges.

I press my face up against the cool surface of the mirror.

I just kissed a boy for the first time without even knowing what he really looks like and then almost threw up on the dance floor.

The bathroom door swings open and I bolt up in case it’s him.

It’s not, thank god.

The boy looks me at. He lifts his mask up. It’s the other boy from before. The boy on the street who was with his group of friends.

“Hey are you ok?” he asks.

I nod.

"Um, ok, no, don't believe you for a second. You are about two shakes away from spewing all over that cute little face of yours."

“Is it that obvious? Do I really look that terrible?”

“You’ve definitely got a greenish tint. Are you gonna vom?”

“No I don’t think so. Out of the danger zone I think.”

"Oh please, Angel Face, I can tell when a newbie is in way over their head." He squints at me. “This is crazy, but I think I know you. Are you…Isakyaki? I messaged you on facebook a few times?”

“Oh shit. You’re Noora’s roommate? Eskild, right? Hey dude, what’s up?”

I move in to give him a hug but am overcome with a sudden wave of nausea and have to lean over the sink and steady myself.

“Hopefully _what's up_ is not the contents of your stomach. Are you sure you’re going to be ok? First time?”

I nod.

He looks at me sympathetically and rubs my shoulder.

I don't know why but I'm crying again.

“I'm going to go out on a limb and say you're not actually ok. Listen, it’s a little crazy tonight in here with the Mardi Gras party and all. If you’re not doing so great we can step outside and get some air. Maybe get some food or go to another place that’s a little more chill. It’d be nice to talk with you in person, not just over facebook.”

I think of the strange beautiful boy on the dance floor who I’ll never see again.

I think of my wings.

I nod.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here. I've had the worst night.”

"Well, the night's not over yet, right?"


	11. The Jump Tower Kiss // Alternating 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss in a parking lot the day after the kosegruppa neon party_

* * *

 

_**i. Even** _

_Hey thanks for yesterday what are your plans for the day?_

_Yeah thanks for last night I hope everything is ok with Noora.  
I had forgotten that I had already made plans with Sonja. Sorry, see you in school._

I press send and immediately regret it. Even though I know it’s the right thing to do, it still feels like I’m fucking up. Like I read the wrong boarding time on a plane ticket and am running as fast as I can to try and catch my flight only to watch it pull away just as I reach the terminal. And I have no one to blame but myself.

I don’t actually have plans with Sonja. I should be working on a new comic idea I have ( _The Scribble Chronicles: The Adventures of Penhead and Eraser Boy_ ) but instead I’m thinking about Isak, specifically his lips. And specifically how much I want to kiss said lips. And throat. And jaw. And right in the center of his little chin dimple. And all over his eyelids. And across his collarbone. And the tips of his fingers. And his chest. And down his stomach to the crevice of his belly button. And lower. I should stop there but I don’t want to stop.

If thinking about kissing Isak was an art form, I’d have certified master status because I’ve definitely put in my 10,000 hours.

In my mind I’m such an intrepid explorer of Isak that I’ve invented a new type of compass that points me to all the places on his body where I can make him moan, sigh, smile, or gasp with just the lightest of touches.

In my mind it’s perfect. I can see it, like I’m watching a movie of us. The moment it happens, I mean. I’m nervous, but still in control. I’m ready and so is he. Maybe we’re walking home from school together and chatting and he sneaks a look at me and our eyes meet and I get so overcome I grab his hand and pull him close and lean him up against a fence or a tree and _would you look at that_ , _now we’re kissing._ Or maybe we’re, like, playing sports (not that I’m the sporty type but hey, why not? It’s my fantasy, right?) and we’re rough housing or wrestling and he has me pinned to the ground and there’s that weighted moment of sexual tension and then _BAM!_ : the kissing. Wherever we are, time stops the moment our lips finally meet and the kiss is so amazing and showstopping it immediately gets added to a bubbly youtuber’s Top 10 Best Not-Straight Kisses of All Time countdown video.

We were so close, last night. On the dance floor: his eyes, my eyes. Then in the kitchen. If he knew what I wanted to do to him right then and there on the kitchen counter...It hurts thinking about it, how close we were, but I don’t mind the ache. Because if I was unsure before, last night gave me reason to hope. And now I’m Wishing-Hoping-Praying to the altar of Isak’s imagined lips on mine.

So instead of doing my homework (meh) or working on my comics I instead write up a pros/cons list about _The Possible Isak Kissing TM._

Pros:

  1. Just thinking about kissing him gives me this nervous-excited-floating feeling like I’m about to pull a ripcord and parachute through the clouds.
  2. I think he wants to kiss me too.
  3. Every time I make him laugh or smile and his dimples emerge I feel like I’m finally doing something right.
  4. I get this déjà vu feeling sometimes when we’re talking like I’m unlocking a memory I thought I’d forgotten and it kind of makes my chest ache (in a good way).



Cons:

  1. That whole parachute opening feeling also comes with a big fat warning: potential crash landing.
  2. I’ve been wrong before.
  3. Sonja.
  4. The darkness/pit and lots of fucking fear.



I’ve been feeling good overall, though. School is good. Sonja is good. Everything is good. Good, stable, same, sane. The only problem is I feel more alive just thinking about kissing Isak than when I’m doing just about anything else. Including kissing Sonja. And don’t get me wrong, I love kissing Sonja. I love her. She helps me. She grounds me. But sometimes I want to be soaring way up in the clouds.

And I want to chase that feeling and take Isak right up there with me. 

So I get an idea.

_Hey actually the plans with Sonja changed. Are you free now?_

_Sure yeah_

_Can I pick you up at 14:00? My mom is letting me borrow her car_

_A car? Really? Where are we going?_

_It’s a surprise ;)_

* * *

**_ii._ _Isak_ **

It’s not a date. Probably. It’s 75% probably not a date. Planning a surprise excursion and hanging out alone with a guy you almost kissed the night before is probably just his idea of a normal Saturday afternoon. At least, I think we’ll be alone? He could have invited along Sonja for all I know.

So, yeah. It’s probably not a date. So I have no reason to be nervous.

Just as I’m thinking about getting some Tums for my definitely-not-Even-related onset of stomach butterflies Eskild pokes his head into my room and says, “Knock knock.”

“That’s not actually a knock if you’ve opened my door already.”

“Ok, fine.” He shuts the door and _shave-and-a-haircut_ knocks before opening it right back up again. “Happy now?”

“Mildly.”

“Ok grumble pants. So…Linn and I are making a nice welcome home dinner for Noora and some of her girlfriends tonight. Do you want to help me get some groceries and make dinner?”

The _you-gotta-be-kidding-me_ look I shoot him must convey the level of interest I have in anything cooking related, which is approximately negative infinity.

“Really, Isak? What else could you possibly be doing that’s better than wishing our dear friend a happy return home after her traumatic breakup and the dashing of all her hopes and dreams?”

“I sort of have plans already.”

“What plans?”

“Just plans.”

“BS. You’re a terrible liar.”

“No, really. I’m hanging out with someone.”

“Who, Jonas? You see him every day. Can’t you do this one nice thing for Noora!?”

“It’s not Jonas.”

“Who, then?”

“Nobody, forget it. I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner. I’ll get Noora a cookie or something.”

“A cookie? Really?”

“Or I don’t know, I’ll get her a ‘Welcome Home Sorry Your Boyfriend Who We All Sort of Thought Was An Asshole Dumped You’ card.”

“How very kind and empathetic of you.”

“What?”

“Ugh, nothing.”

Just then I get a text from Even that he’s downstairs. My stomach does an acrobatic flip and high bar routine but I try to keep it cool in front of Eskild while I grab my shoes and jacket.

“I gotta go, Eskild. My ride’s here. Tell Noora sorry I can’t make it tonight.”

“Your ride? Hold up, I’ll walk out with you. I have to run to the grocery store anyway.”

“Just…ugh fine. Hurry up, though.”

* * *

_**iii. Even** _

It’s a clear beautiful October day. Blue sky and big wispy white clouds, which is rare for this time of year. I take it as a good omen that what I’ve got planned is the right move.

I arrive at Isak’s house and text him that I’m downstairs.

I pull up a Spotify playlist called ‘Love, Sex & Water’. It’s full of chill and sexy hip-hop songs I hope Isak will dig. I never said subtlety was my specialty.

Isak comes downstairs trailed by his roommate. Isak doesn’t look too thrilled about this. He smiles when he sees me, though. Isak gets in the passenger seat and his roommate sticks his head through my open window. Isak rolls his eyes so hard I think they’ll fall out.

“Bonjour, I’m Eskild,” he reaches in to shake my hand. “You were at the party last night with your cute girlfriend, right? I don’t think we were properly introduced.”

“Even, a pleasure. I almost didn’t recognize you without the pink wig. I wanted to tell you last night that it was a good color on you.”

“Oh, that old thing? Shucks. Anyway… I’m just on my way to get some groceries and a few things for Noora, our other roommate. What are you two up to?” 

I look at Isak; he’s got the same deer-in-the-headlights look he had before at school when I gave him his hat back in front of his friends.

I instinctively make up something on the spot. “Nothing special. Isak said he’d help me pick up a used drafting desk from craigslist and move it up into my house with me.”

“Wow, Isak actually being voluntarily helpful. That’s a first. I can barely get him to wash a dish let alone move furniture. You must be a good influence on him.”

Isak cuts in, “Ok Eskild, we gotta go now.”

“Ok, ciao. Have fun, baby Jesus. Try not to strain a muscle doing all that heavy lifting.”

Eskild saunters off and Isak looks adorably embarrassed. “Sorry about that, Eskild can be so nosy sometimes.”

“No worries. I like him. Did he just call you baby Jesus??”

“Don’t ask. So…we’re not actually moving furniture, are we? Because I didn’t sign on for a day of manual labor.”

I laugh and say, “Hell no.”

“So what are we doing then?”

“Didn’t I tell you it was a surprise?"

“Can I guess, though?”

“Sure.”

“What do I get if I guess right?”

“Hm. My endless admiration and utmost respect.”

“Ok, cool. Cash would also work, though.”

I start the car and the Waze voice of Morgan Freeman tells us the next direction. “And don’t cheat by peaking at my GPS.”

“I’m no cheater. I'm a man of honor. So. If we’re going someplace by car that probably means it’s far enough out of the city that getting there by bus or tram is a pain. Hmm…the go-kart track?”

I make an _eerrrrr_ buzzer noise. “Nope but that sounds awesome. Maybe I should change the plan so we can ram into each other.”

He blushes a little but pretends he’s not. “Um…The Teknisk Museum? I used to love that place so much when I was a kid. I had my birthday party there when I was six.”

“Aw now I’m picturing little kid science nerd Isak in a lab coat with your hair all sticking up from the static electricity demonstration. Not today, but I’ll have to take you there another time to relive the childhood magic.”

“Is it sports related?”

I shrug.

“Hmm...that's probably a yes. It’s too early for ice skating…and last week was the last football match of the season so it’s probably not Ulleval Stadium…”

“I'll give you a hint: we’re heading North West, just like Kanye's daughter.”

“Nice. Vigeland Park?"

“Nope but I do love those crazy baby statues.”

“Something to do with cinema since you're obsessed? I know! The Imax at the Colloseum kino! Bam.”

“Wrong again.”

“Damn. Can you give me another hint?”

“The hint store is closed. Just relax! Enjoy the ride. _Live in the now_.”

“That’s hard to do when I have a potential kidnapper taking me God knows where.”

“I think this is a voluntary kidnapping since you agreed to come with me.”

“Fine. But my parents always warned me about getting into cars with freakishly tall, mysterious men. I should have listened to them.”

“Your parents gave you oddly specific stranger danger instructions...”

“Yeah, _don’t take candy from anyone taller than six and a half feet_. They really stressed that rule for some reason.”

“They must have known you’d fall under the influence of vertically-gifted older man one day.”

“It’s really not fair, you know. I’m used to being the tall one. When I had another growth spurt last year Jonas and Magnus started calling me _Valterstretch_.”

“Well I was 13 when I got to be six feet and everyone called me…wait for it… _Mount Evenest_.”

"Ouch. That sucks. Gotta give the schoolyard bullies points for the excellent pun though."

We both laugh and I sneak a quick look at him. I love his profile. The shading of his cheekbone and the little upturn of his nose. It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road when he’s sitting right next to me. He catches my eye and smiles just as Redbone by Childish Gambino comes on the playlist.

“I love this song,” I say and turn it up. “You know it? The vocals on his new record are unreal. He’s got this whole Prince vibe going on.”

“I haven’t heard this yet.”

“Ok you gotta listen to this shit.”

We don’t talk for a minute, just drive and let the song wash over us. He bops his head and thrums his fingers on his thigh in this cute sort of arrhythmic way. We pass by Vigeland Park and continue onto Holmenkollveien.

“Shit I know where we’re going! Holmenkollen Ski Museum?”

“Bingo. It’s almost the last weekend of the season for the zip line to be open. Don’t know about you but I’m in the mood to fly today."

* * *

 

_**iv. Isak** _

 

My stomach plummets. _Shit shit shit shit._

The last time I was at the Ski Jump Tower was a few years ago for a school trip and I learned that day—when I ended up dry heaving in front of my classmates—that I have a thing about heights. I don’t think it’s full on acrophobia, but high places are not my happy place. I always request an aisle seat on airplanes and let’s just say going to the top of Bhurj Kalifa or the Eiffel Tower is not on my bucket list.

The smile on Even’s face is so brilliant and euphoric that I don’t want to tell him this could be very very bad.

* * *

_**v. Even** _

Isak’s a little quieter for the remaining ten minutes of the drive. We listen to the music and I tease him for not knowing any of the artists on the alternative r+b playlist even though he claims to be a rap connoisseur. He corrects me: he’s an _old school hip-hop enthusiast._ At the same time I am trying to keep up a steady stream of flirtatious and witty banter I'm also compulsively running through in my head what I have planned to tell him when we get to the top of the ski jump tower.

 _Isak. I’m so glad I met you._ _I really like you. Isak, there’s something I want to tell you. You know what I said last night about not being able to dump Sonja? There’s something that’s kind of hard for me to talk about but I hope you’ll get it._

“Have you ever done the zip line here before?” I ask as we pull into the parking lot.

“Had a school trip here once but I um…I didn’t do the zip line.”

“Sweet, that’ll make it even better! A first timer!”

We approach the ticket kiosk and get in line. Isak looks stricken. It must be because he sees the admission fee, which is a pretty hefty 730 kr.

“Hey, don’t worry about the ticket. I got this. My treat.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“No, I want to.”

“Umm…we could just go up to the museum and not do the zip line if you want instead? That’s cheaper, right?”

“Seriously? No way. The zip line is the best 60 seconds money can buy. I love it. I’m going to do a video with my phone and everything. Don’t worry! This date was my idea so I’m paying. No arguing allowed.”

Isak seems slightly surprised but mollified by me referring to this as a date. He smiles but still looks a little concerned. I put my hand on his shoulder, partly to assure him but also (mostly) because at this point I will use any measly excuse to touch him.

“Hey, really. I wanted to do something special today. Please don’t worry about the ticket price.”

He nods and takes his snapback off then runs his hands through his hair a few times. I have to stop myself from reaching out and brushing a few strands of his curls back behind his ears.

_Isak, I wasn’t sure before if I liked boys. But around you, I’m pretty fucking sure._

I buy us two tickets. He says, “It looks like admission to the museum is included. Want to go and look around there first? Learn about the fascinating history of Scandi winter sports?”

“Let’s go up top first then you can nerd-out about the evolution of the snowshoe to your heart’s content. They close the zip line at 16:00 so I want to make sure we get a chance before it closes. Look how beautiful and clear it is today. So perfect. We’ll be able to see for miles and miles up there.”

Isak nods and we head to the elevator.

The elevator has a big glass window so you can see the tracks during the whole diagonal ascent to the top of the tower. We’re crammed in with a bunch of noisy tourists taking videos on their phones so we don’t talk the whole way up. But my mind is racing the whole time.

_Isak, I have Bipolar Disorder. It's not as scary as you probably think it is. Let me try and explain. I know what the darkness deep down is like. But the way I feel up here – free, happy, like I could fly. That’s how I feel when I’m doing well and how I feel when I'm with you. Isak, you make me feel alive._

* * *

_**vi. Isak** _

64 meters is not so bad. The Eiffel Tower is 300 meters and most modern skyscrapers are in the 500-600 meter range, so when you think about it the 64 meter height and 360 meter length of the zip line is really nothing to bat an eye at. And I have a plan anyway. I’ll just close my eyes the whole time. Easy. It’ll be over in less than a minute.

We step out of the elevator and can either head up to the outdoor observation deck or to the waiting area before the zip line. I stear us immediately away from the outdoor deck because enclosed space is more manageable. The glass-walled room has what lots of people probably consider a “breathtaking” view of Oslo and the surrounding suburbs and forests. Only in my case, the view is literally breath-taking because it’s snatched away any ability for me to breathe whatsoever. My heart is racing and I start to feel a tingling constricting pain in my chest. I tell myself to relax and I breathe through my nose in a way that seems embarrassingly loud ( _this is not a yoga class Isak, just chill_ ) and I look at the floor to keep the feeling like the glass walls are squeezing in on me at bay. I tell myself in my strictest teacher/coach voice: _Isak, get a grip. You are not in danger. The structure of this tower is perfectly sound and thousands of people come here every year. You are not having a heart attack. You are not dying. Your body is simply in an irrational state of fight or flight panic. Your ancestors are telling you to get your dumb ass back down to the ground where you belong. Remember to breathe. And if it gets really bad, just tell Even you need to sit down. You can tell him._

I was hoping we’d only be up here only briefly, but there’s a long line of tourists in front of us and it looks like we’ll be here for another 20 minutes at least before we sign the waiver forms and get hooked into the harness.

I’m so fucked.

Through the rising panic I feel Even’s hand on the small of my back, almost like a sigh of relief.

* * *

 

_**vii. Even** _

I place my hand on the small of his back to guide him slightly away from the tourists who are queuing up for the zip line so I can take a minute to gather my thoughts and bask in the stunning view below us. My hands know more than my brain how to articulate this need to connect with him. But I want to change that.

I look out at the azure sky dotted with fluffy clouds. The sun is beginning its crest into late afternoon, bathing the buildings and trees below in spectacularly warm and buttery light. The light, the sky, everything is perfect. Now would be the perfect time for me to tell Isak how I feel.

But the perfectly articulate lines I’ve crafted start scrambling around in a jumble, tumbling around incessantly and noisily in the back of my mind like a washing machine filled with sneakers.

_Isak, I’m darkness. No that’s not it. I have darkness inside me but not all the time. I wish this was easier to talk about. Isak, I’m scared all the time. But I don't want to be._

My leg is so bouncy I think it is going to short-circuit and blast off my body on its own. I’m so engrossed in trying to figure out how, when, and if I should actually tell Isak what I want to tell him that it takes me a minute to realize that he looks like he’s about to puke.

* * *

 

_**viii. Isak** _

“Isak, are you ok?”

I nod, because I think with the invisible chokehold around my throat I won’t actually be able to speak. His hand is firmly on my back. I shut my eyes and try to imagine the pressure of him touching me as a peaceful blue light radiating out from his hand and into my body. It helps calm me for a second, but then all the air is gone and it feels like the floor beneath me is going to give out and I’m going to plummet down to an untimely death. I really was hoping I'd have kissed a boy before I die but I guess that's out of the cards now.

_Isak, you’re not going to die. Stop being such a drama queen. Tell him you need to sit down._

I still can’t speak. I make my way shakily and unsteadily to sit on the floor and he grabs ahold of me and helps me down. I cover my face with my hands and breathe.

“Isak? What’s wrong?”

I think I’d die of embarrassment right here and now if I didn’t already think I was dying of a heart attack and stroke and falling 64 meters at the same time.

“Can you breathe? Take some deep breaths with me, alright? Yeah, that’s better. Does this happen a lot? Should we go to a doctor?”

I shake my head no. Breathe.

One of the zip line workers has spotted us, a guy in his 20s. Fucking fantastic. Last thing I want is more attention.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks. “Do you need First Aid or medical assistance?”

I shake my head no and spit out a few words through the tightness in my throat. “Fine. Panic attack. Just need a minute.”

“Why don’t you take the elevator back down immediately?”

Even says, “Yeah, let’s go. Let me help you.” I am struck by a wave of dizziness as he pulls me to my feet.

_Don’t puke on Even. Don’t puke on Even. Whatever you do, don’t you dare fucking puke on Even._

“Hey, I gotcha,” he says as we step into the elevator. “Just close your eyes and breathe. Yeah, rest on me. It’s gonna be fine, Isak. Just breathe."

* * *

_**iv. Even** _

His eyes are closed and he’s nestled into my shoulder during the whole elevator ride back down. I take his hat off for him and rub his temple in a little gentle circle. And I tuck a blond curl behind his ear, just because I can.

Once we’re off the elevator, we sit back down on solid ground. He leans his head on my shoulder. I place my hand on his knee and he places his hand on top of mine.

We sit like this in silence until his breathing returns to normal.

* * *

_**x. Isak** _

Just as I predicted, I don’t actually die. Or maybe I did die, because now Even’s hand is interlocking with mine and it feels so good. It’s like I was accidentally sent to heaven on an angelic bureaucratic oversight and don’t know what I did to deserve the amazing feeling of leaning into Even and letting him hold me and help me.

“So,” I say finally, once I’ve calmed all the way down and the silence seems like it has gone on maybe a little too long. “That happened.”

We both laugh, which is an enormous relief.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry. I kind of thought there might be a chance of that happening up there but I wasn’t sure. I feel like a dick.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re scared of heights, then?”

“Kind of, I guess.”

“You get panic attacks a lot?”

“Not so much anymore. I thought I had it under control. They were pretty bad when my parents were separating but that was already a few years ago.”

“Did you talk to someone about it?”

“You mean, like a therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah, that shit’s not for me. I’m sorry, I should have told you before we went all the way up there.”

“You didn’t know that was going to happen. Stop apologizing.”

“But you got those expensive tickets and everything.”

“It’s really no big deal. And maybe I can return them? You okay here for a second? I’ll go talk to the ticket taker and explain.”

Even starts to get up and I reluctantly untangle myself from him.

“Be right back,” he says.

* * *

_**xi. Even** _

I should have told him.

I had the perfect chance.

Why didn’t I just tell him right then?

Why did the words that have been building inside me all day suddenly reach a firewall the second I had the opportunity to open my mouth and tell him the truth?

I feel terrible for not noticing that he was in distress and just assuming what I had planned for us would be all hunky-dory just because I was excited about it. I should know better. I'm a total asshole.

I go up to the ticket kiosk and plead our case (I know full well the tickets are non-refundable but I gotta give it a try at least).

I turn my charm-meter up to 100 and the ticket lady agrees to refund one ticket.

Isak is still sitting cross-legged on the ground. He looks spent but much better than up in the tower.

“So, she agreed to refund one ticket. We can head out now if you want.”

“No, why don’t you go up and do the zip line without me? It won’t take long and I’ll just wait here. That would make me feel better knowing you didn’t waste your ticket.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll just get a soda from the vending machine and chill for a minute.”

“Ok, cool.”

“Cool.”

“You sure? I don’t want to leave you alone?”

“I’m fine now, Even. I swear. Please go do the zip line. I’ll feel like the biggest jerk on the planet if we came all the way out here and just went home.”

“Ok, I’ll be quick.”

_Tell him tell him tell him tell him._

I head back to the elevator. But before I go to the zip line I head up to the observation deck to snap a few photos. I put my phone in selfie mode then decide to sit down for a second and record a little video. After I do, I feel so much better. Like an enormous weight is gone and I know that whatever happens, I'll at least have tried to reach for the heights I'm dreaming of.

The line moves quickly. It’s nearly closing time. The golden-hour sun is doing its magical thing and I’m not afraid to look directly at its center. I like the sting.

I sign a waiver then get strapped into the harness. I get an anticipatory rush of adrenaline. I was going to take a video of the descent but decide against it. A video would never quite match the real thing anyway. And I'd rather take my own advice and live for the present moment only.

The chilly wind whips through my hair and jacket and brings a few tears to my eyes. I spread out my arms. I shout and whoop and holler as loud as I can the whole way down.

* * *

_**xii. Isak** _

Even is back in about 20 minutes. His cheeks are flushed and his nose is a little red. It's really fucking cute. His hair is abnormally windswept and wild, falling over his eyes in chunky pieces. I want to reach out and put the strands back in place to its usually perfectly flipped-up style. But I chicken out.

“You still want to check out the museum?" he asks. "It's open for another half hour or so. You seemed really into it before.”

“Um…that was because I was trying to avoid going up to the tower.”

“So you’re not actually dying to see hundreds of wooden skis?”

“No, not really.”

“I’m shocked.”

We’re heading to the car and he stops short.

“Actually, I’m just going to run to the vending machine. But, um. I made you a little video. When I was up there. Don’t worry, I was sitting on the ground. You can’t see any of the view behind me. So, um. Yeah. You can watch it. I’ll be right back.”

My heart is hammering again. But not in the same panic-y way as before. In a way that I’m used to feeling whenever Even does anything that takes me totally by surprise.

With his crazy long legs he’s already halfway to the vending machines by the time I hit play.

_“Hi Isak. So, I admit this is a little weird. Making a video for you when we are both at the same place at the same time. But it’s easier for me to say this on video. Um. I like you? There’s a lot of stuff in my life that confuses and scares me, but from the moment I met you I felt how special you are. And seeing you today made me realize how much you’ve started to mean to me in just this short time knowing you. And I’d like to get to know you more. And go on more dates with you that don’t involve panic attacks. So, I guess, I’m asking if you like me, too? I don’t want to presume anything or make this awkward for you if you are only interested in being friends. So after you watch this video, I’m going to ask you to kiss me I think. If you say no, I totally understand. But if you say yes that would be…awesome. Ok. That’s it.”_

* * *

_**xiii. Even** _

Yes, I’m being totally extra and trying to spy on his reaction to watching my video from all the way across the parking lot.

He’s sitting on the hood of the car, smiling. A lot.

I want to run as fast as I can to the car but I take it slow. 

He looks up at me. He smiles and bites his lower lip.

I also lean against the hood of the car.

“So.”

“So.”

We look at each other. He is trying to suppress a smile and doing a terrible job of it. I reach out my hands to cup his face. His cheeks are warm despite the chill in the air. He leans into my hands, closes his eyes and breathes. His breath hitches in his throat and I want to hold him and press him into me as tight as I possibly can.

“Is that a yes?” I ask.

“Yes it’s a yes.”

“So, can I….?”

He nods.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Thank you? For what?"

“For this chance.”

"Ok stop being so fucking polite and kiss me already."

Our noses touch. Then our lips. We kiss deep and slow. It's better than any movie could ever be. And I’m higher than the ski tower, higher than the clouds, higher than the sun and the planets and the stars. And I think he’s right there with me. But this time without an ounce of fear.

 


	12. The Kosegruppa Cookies Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world they kiss at Even's house while making cookies for kosegruppa_

* * *

 

Vilde Lien Hellerud has added you to the group **Nissenrevyen – Kosegruppa.**

Vilden Lien Hellerud has changed the group name to **Nissenreyven - Kosegruppa 2017!! <3 <3 <3.**

Vilde Lien Hellerud posted in **Nissenreyven - Kosegruppa 2017!! <3 <3 <3:**

_Hello “kosies”! Welcome to the facebook group for the best revue group of them all – kosegruppa! Eva, Sana and I would like to thank everyone for attending our interest meeting and showing such enthusiasm for this year’s revue! We are determined to make this the most fun and coziest year ever!_

_As you probably know, all the Nissenreyven groups are throwing a big kick-off party this Friday and Isak has agreed to host a pregame at his apartment (the Borettslaget Kollektivet) for just us kosies. Thank you Isak!!! The pregame will technically begin at 19:00. The theme is neon!!_

_HOWEVER from 17:30-19:00 I have a special plan in store! **Please take careful note of the next paragraphs!**_

_I have checked with the other revue group leaders and they have given us the ok to hand out a little treat as a parting gift to everyone at the revue kick-off party! I would love to include in each goodie bag a sugar cookie with royal icing. I have edible markers we can use to write “Revue Rules!”_   _on each cookie._

_Please communicate with the baking partner you chose at the interest meeting – there are as of now 12 duos (or in some cases trios) and if each duo bakes 3 dozen cookies we can all decorate the cookies and assemble the goodie bags together at Isak’s from 17:30-19:00 and then continue partying! Also Even agreed to design a kosegruppa logo for us and I am going to print out stickers to put on the outside of each goodie bag._

_Please let me know if you and your partner will be unable to bake for this event! This is the first event of the year and as such will really set the tone for how the rest of the revue groups view us so I am aiming for **100% participation**. See the below link to the sugar cookie and icing recipe I have chosen. If you need to buy ingredients please send me a photo of the receipt and we will reimburse you via venmo from the official revue budget account._

_Thank you!!!!!!!!!! :) :) :)_

_xoxo Vilde (and Sana and Eva)_

* * *

I get the barrage of notifications from Vilde and I’m skimming over the 1,000 page novel she has apparently written about the friggin’ kosegruppa when my eyes dart to this sentence: _Please communicate with the baking partner you chose at the interest meeting._ Or in my case, baking partners. Plural.

I back up to re-read her long-winded message more carefully ( _really Vilde, you could have just said, “Make some cookies” and have been done with it_ ). I can’t help it, though, when my traitorous heart leaps at the easy opportunity Vilde has just handed me to spend time with Even. But then I have to shake myself out of my momentary lapse of reality. Because _oh that’s right_ I found out on Friday that Even has an annoyingly beautiful girlfriend that he can’t seem to keep his infuriatingly perfect lips off of when they’re within two feet of each other. He’s the last person I should want to spend any more one-on-one time with. And Emma, well. If I’m being totally honest I’m not sure I want to be spending that much alone time with her either. Even though just this morning I pulled out all the stops so she’d forgive me for blowing off her and her friends to keep hanging out with Even on Friday. What a colossal mistake that turned out to be.

My phone dings. It’s a text from Emma. Because, of course it would be.

 _Hey you. Just saw the message from Vilde about baking._  
_Are you and me and that Even guy still partners?_  
_Want to meet up on Friday before the pregame for some baking fun?_  
_I’m busy the rest of this week so Fri is my only free afternoon._

_That sounds really nice but let me check with Even.  
Don’t think he’s on facebook so he prob didn’t see Vilde’s message._

_Ok cool just let me know! :)_

I immediately text Vilde:

_Hey what’s all this bs about decorating cookies and goodie bags for kosegruppa??!!  
I agreed to host a pregame not Martha Stewart craft night._

_Eskild and Linn agreed to it! They are super excited about the party!_  
_And we won’t be making a mess because all the cookies will be made already._  
_Honestly, Isak, where is your school spirit???_

_Ok fine, whatever._

_Also, do you have any party accessories for the neon theme?_

_No._

_Ok I’ll take care of it. :) :)_

I’m cursing whoever invented the smile emoji. I’m feeling distinctively un-smiley and all these little yellow asinine faces are putting me in an even shittier mood. I’m thinking I should forgo trying to get in touch with Even at all and just plan to meet up with Emma instead. She’s cute and pretty. She’s into me, clearly. It would be so easy.

Then I get a message from an unknown number.

_Hey, Isak._

_Who is this?_

_Look out your window and find out._

_Ha-ha. Really though, I don’t have this number?_

_It’s your favorite cheese toastie chef._

_Oh, hey Even._

(HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT).

_I got your number from Sana, one of the kosegruppa leaders._

_Cool._

_I’m not on facebook but she sent me a screenshot of the message from Vilde about the baking stuff and the party on Friday._

_Ah, I see._

_So…are we still partners?_

_Sure, yeah. Emma just texted me about it too._

_Cool._

I wait a second to see if he’s going to say anything more about Emma and all of us being partners together. But he doesn’t and I don’t want to admit how relieved I am.

_So…Vilde roped you into making an actual logo for the kosegruppa??  
I warned you she can be a little intense._

_Yeah I kind of found that out the hard way.  
But my kosegruppa logo is going to make the Nike swish look like amateur hour._

_Nice._

_Are you free on Thursday after school though?_

_You mean for baking? Seriously??? You’re actually into that?_

_Real men bake cookies. Haven’t you seen Hele Norge baker??  
Get with the times, Valtersen._

_Yeah ok. Thursday is good._

_And I promise I won’t tell Vilde about your rogue attitude toward spices.  
Or she might not trust us to make sugar cookies without kardamom and chili._

_Ha-ha. Those spices were your idea, too._

_So Thurs at my place?_

_Yeah, cool.  
_

_Cool. Let’s meet at the courtyard at 15:30 :)_

Okay, maybe smiley emojis aren’t so terrible after all.

I save Even’s number in my phone as “Even Kosegruppa” and shoot Emma another text:

 _Hey just got a message from Even._  
_He can only do Thurs for cookies and he seems really into it._  
_Next time? :(_

_Sure no problem. I’m not much of a baker anyway!_

_Well that makes two of us._

_Lol :)_

_But you’re coming to the pregame on Friday though?_

_Yes!_

_Good. ;)_

* * *

 

I’m cagey and jumpy the rest of the week. I don’t see Even at all in school until Thursday afternoon when we meet up in the courtyard to head to the tram to get to his house.

We get on the same #12 line we took last Friday. Talking and hanging out with Even that day was so free and easy—that is until the 'this is my girlfriend, Sonja' bomb dropped—and now I don’t know where I stand with him or how I’m supposed to act, think or feel. I’m wired and wary and am actively ignoring the part of my brain that keeps repeating _he has a_ _girlfriend, he has a girlfriend_ like a mosquito buzzing in my ear. All I want to do is ask about Sonja. How long have they been together? What does he like about her? Do they listen to the same music? Does she make him laugh? What is the sex like? What about her turns Even on? It’s all totally masochistic but I can’t stop my thoughts from reeling around in jealous and curious circles. I’m afraid what will come out if I open my mouth so I clamp it shut. The first few minutes of the tram ride are heavy with silence.

“Great conversation,” he says with a little smile to break the tension. “I think I’m having a déjà vu moment.”

“Yup, here we are again.”

“I could get used to it, though,” he says. I smile and after that some of the awkwardness between us dissipates, thank god.

“Do you have all the ingredients or do we need to stop off and grab some?” I ask.

“Yeah I checked this morning before I left school and we have everything at home except for meringue powder.”

“Meringue powder? What even is that? That sounds like a _Narcos_ -style codename for coke.”

He laughs and says, “It’s for the icing. Wow you really are a cooking noob.”

“I have lots of other excellent qualities that make up for my lack of culinary skills.”

“Yeah like what?”

“Um…my rapping, obviously."

"Obviously." 

"I can hold my breath under water for a really long time..."

"I'm sure that comes in handy."

"And of course my quick wit and devastatingly good looks?”

“Can’t argue with that.”

He raises an eyebrow and smiles his magnetic smile at me and, _come on_ , he’s definitely flirting with me, right? I’m not making it up the way his eyes linger a little too long and the way our bodies lean in and inch closer together as we hold onto the tram pole. 

He lightly touches my wrist and says, “Next stop.” The contact sends a jolt of heat through me, damn him. Last week this would have thrilled me but right now it just pisses me off. 

We get off the tram and head toward the grocery. “I found my i.d. so I can pick us up some beer for later, too. That cool?”

“Sure, yeah, whatever.”

“Do you have a favorite brand?”

“Not really. Rignes is fine.”

“Cool.”

"If you prefer wine Sonja just gave me a free bottle from her work?"

"Um I'm not into wine, beer is good."

"Ok."

“Actually I’ll just wait outside here for you, I need to make a quick phone call to my dad,” I lie.

He goes inside and I consider making up some reason to bail on him, like I have a sudden family emergency with my mom. But I figure only the worst type of terrible coward would use their actually crazy mom as a fake excuse. And if he asks what’s wrong I’d have to elaborate and my mom is the last person I want to talk about. Just because I’m in this weird state of jealous/horny/heart-and-hope-crushed is no reason for me to lose all my morals, right? I can be chill about Even and get through the next few hours without losing all composure. Right?

He comes back out a few minutes later and asks, “Everything good?”

“Yeah just needed to talk to my dad about rent for next month.”

“Alright. Ready for the baking time of your life?”

“Let’s do it.”

* * *

His parents are still at work and we have the place to ourselves again. He tells me they usually work pretty late, though they still try to have dinner as a family as much as they can despite everyone’s busy schedules.

“That’s cool,” I say but want to change the subject away from families so I pull up Vilde’s instructions from facebook. “Ok I’ll just find the recipe thingy Vilde sent us. Ok. Um, it says here we need a stand mixer? What the hell is that? And do you have any cookie cutters? And shit, once the dough is all mixed we have to let it sit in the fridge for an hour? This is way intense. Ugh Vilde.”

“I can think up plenty of things we can do to pass the time for an hour. Be right back.”

He goes into his room and comes out with a little baggie of weed and some rolling papers.

“You’re telling me you’ve never gotten baked while baking?” he grins.

I snort. “Can’t say that I have. Unless you count making cheese toasties as baking.”

“Oh that definitely counts. Ok, I’ll roll us one if you can get out all the ingredients. Sugar, flour and all that are in those labeled jars. Vanilla extract is in the spice rack. Eggs in the fridge. Mixing bowls are in that cabinet there.”

I start to get out everything. Meanwhile, he syncs up his phone to wireless speakers and puts on some music I don’t recognize right away.

“You know this record, right?” he asks.

“Um…”

“Frank Ocean? _Channel Orange_? One of the best albums of the last decade?!”

“Oh yeah, I know this. I didn’t recognize the intro song.”

“Ok phew. I was just about to grab a shovel and dig you out of the rock you’ve been living under if you don’t know the genius that is Frank Ocean.”

“I know him.”

“Mm Hm.”

“I do,” I say and try to sing a little of the falsetto chorus “ _Or do you know think so far ahead?”_ but end up croaking like a frog and cracking us both up.

“Ok ok I believe you. You can leave the singing to him, though. But seriously, I have so much respect for him as an artist and person. This record helped me out at a time when I really needed it.”

I wait to see if he’s going to elaborate but he’s focused on rolling the joint now so I don’t press him. When he’s done the joint he sets it aside. Then, to my surprise he gets out a knife and cutting board and starts chopping up a bud from his weed baggie.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“Don’t have a real shake so I’m making do with what I have.”

“A shake?”

“Yeah, you never heard that before? ‘Shake and bake’? It’s like the little bits you can easily blend into food for ‘special treats’.”

“Ah, right. Never heard it called that. Wait, you’re not planning to put all that into the kosegruppa cookies, are you?”

“I’m not _that_ crazy. These are for us. Mini special batch only.”

“Ok, good. Phew. Cause I like you too much to see you get sentenced to life in prison for handing out cookies laced with weed to unsuspecting revue nerds.”

Even smiles so hard that little crinkles appear around his eyes and I realize too late what I just said. So I find the measuring cups and start scooping out the flour so I don’t say anything else stupid. The flour billows up in a cloud around me as I dump it a little too vigorously into the mixing bowl.

After a second of silence Even says, “So...you like me, huh?”

I feel my face flush. “Shut up and hand me an apron or something so I don’t this get stupid flour all over myself.”

“Here you go," he grabs an apron off a hook. "I can tie it for you.” He stands behind me and when he's done tying the strings his hands linger on the small of my back for a second. A wave of heat rolls through me and settles somewhere below my stomach.

“You know what, I don’t think my mom has a stand mixer. So for the eggs and butter we’re just gonna have to beat it by hand. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

He raises his eyebrows at me and I flash him an _are-you-kidding-me_ look. I’m blushing again, though, damn him, so I throw a little pinch of flour at him.

“What, was that joke too easy?” he says, laughing, and I make a show of rolling my eyes. “Anyway I was lying. She does have one,” he says and gets out a mixer from a cabinet plus the butter and sugar.

I’ve never used a mixing machine before and I admit, it’s kind of fun. Especially adding in the shake into a small batch we’ve set aside just for the ‘special dough’. It smells amazing. Once we’ve mixed all the ingredients for the two doughs we wrap them up in plastic wrap and stick them in the fridge.

“And now we wait,” he says and grabs the joint.

“And now we wait.”

“Window?”

I nod, take the apron off and follow him to sit on the windowsill.

“Déjà vu moment #2,” he says and passes me the joint. “Only this time you’ve got a little flour on your cheek.”

“Where?” I ask mid-drag.

“Right—there—“ he reaches over and brushes his fingers against my face. I’m startled and start hacking on the smoke I’m attempting to hold in my lungs.

“You ok?”

I nod but am still coughing.

“Let me get you some water.”

He comes back and I gulp down the water, my throat burning.

“Thanks.”

“ _If you don’t cough you don’t get off, right_?” he says and pats my back.

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“What? You never heard that either? Jeez.”

He sits back down across from me and we each take a few more hits in silence.

“I’m gonna change the music. Any requests?”

“Something chill.”

“Something chill…Ok. I know! How about…Enya?”

“Enya? Seriously?”

“No really, I love Enya. She is the queen of chill. She gets me in touch with my cosmic center.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

He loses his straight face and I want to smack him.

“I actually do love Enya. Totally un-ironically.”

“Of course you do. But I am throwing down major veto power on anything that could be classified as 'New Age' or used for background music at a massage parlor.”

“No New Age, got it. You’re missing out though. Do you like Miguel?”

“That’s more like it.”

He puts on the album _Kaleidoscope Dream_. As Adorn begins the effects of the weed hit me in a wave and the music sounds spacey and enormous and everywhere and really fucking sexy. We both bop our heads to the beat and I try not to stare at him too hard. It doesn’t work too well.

 _These lips can't wait to taste your skin, baby, no, no_  
_And these eyes, yeah, can't wait to see your grin, ooh ooh baby_  
  
_Just let my love adorn you  
__Please baby, yeah_

 _You gotta know_  
_You know that I adore you_  
_Yeah baby_

How can he not know?

My heart is beating in double time and some of my tightest muscles start to twitch a bit. I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck. The music sounds hi-def and clear, better than it’s ever sounded before. My body wants to move. Or maybe it wants to lie on the floor. I like doing that when I’m stoned alone, just lie on the floor with my eyes closed and feel the marijuana-accentuated music vibrate through me. Even glances over at me and smiles. I smile back and it feels weirdly big and clown-like. I’m definitely entering stage 2 level stoned.

 _Baby these fists will always protect ya, lady_  
_And this mind, oh, will never neglect you, yeah, baby, oh, baby_  
_And if they try to break us down don't let that affect us, no, baby_

 _You just gotta let my love_  
_Let my love_  
_Let my love adorn you_

“What do keep doing to your jaw?” he asks.

“What?”

“You keep going like this.” He wiggles his chin down.

“Oh. That.” I’m embarrassed because I hadn’t realized it was noticeable. “I have TMJ. When I smoke strong weed I kind of can’t help easing out my jaw. Listen to this.”

I open my mouth and my jaw makes a loud popping noise.

“Holy shit. That sounded crazy.”

“Yeah I know. I grind me teeth in my sleep.”

“Can I feel?”

“Feel what?”

“Your jaw.”

“Sure I guess.”

He places his big hands on the sides of my face, around my jaw. “Now do the thing again.”

I pop my jaw.

“Jesus Christ. I could really feel it. Have you seen a doctor about this?”

I shrug.

“Does it hurt?”

“I’m used to it. I really only notice it when I’m stoned actually. And the muscles start to relax on their own.”

“Hey, I have something you could try. Hold on a sec.”

He goes into his room and comes out again a minute later holding a little mint green tube.

“What is that?”

“This is what I like to call my happy tingle cream.”

“The fuck?!”

Even laughs. “Ok it’s actually Buddha Balm’s ‘fast-acting topical relief for muscular tension and pain’. Here, smell. It uses mint extract. Good, right? You put on a little dab and your skin gets all tingly. I use it on my temples sometimes when I’m meditating or if I have a bad headache. It feels really good. Try it.”

“Umm…I’ll pass.”

“Isak, it feels really good, I’m telling you.”

“I don’t do all this new age-y herbal remedy homeopathic stuff.”

“So you’d rather sit there and suffer instead of trying something new that could actually make you feel better?”

“Exactly.”

“You are such a grumpy old man.”

“Ok, fine, I’ll try it.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere.”

“Ok, where is your jaw bone most likely to emit that crazy awful loud cracking noise?”

I point to the spot on my jaw right below my ear. Even hands me the tube and I rub in a little of the ointment. Nothing seems to happen.

“When does the tingling start?”

“Just give it a second, jeez louise. Anywhere else tight?”

“Um, the middle of my upper back and my right shoulder blade always kind of hurts, I guess.”

“Ok, take your hoodie off.”

“Why?”

“So I can put this on your shoulder.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Your arms would have to be super long and stretchy to reach all the way between your shoulder blades. I’ll do it, just relax.”

I pull off my sweatshirt with an exaggerated huff. He puts a little dab of the lotion on his thumb and reaches up under my t-shirt to the base my shoulder. My whole body tenses at the contact. His hands are cold and my body is so warm.

“Tell me where.”

“A little more to the right. And a little higher.”

“There?”

“Yeah.”

He rubs the lotion in with his thumb and then kneads my shoulder muscles so deeply that I almost wince. But it feels amazing, too.

“That ok? Wow these knots mean business. Other shoulder, too?”

“Sure, why not. Ok I’m starting to feel the tingling now on my jaw. Wow this feels so weird.”

“You like it, though?”

“If my jaw relaxes anymore I might start involuntarily drooling everywhere.”

He laughs and keeps digging and rubbing his thumbs into my skin. Then he switches it up and uses his knuckles. I close my eyes and try not to moan obscenely.

“Damn you’re really good at this,” I say.

“Is that too hard? I feel like I’m grinding you like a mortar and pestle.”

“No I like it hard.”

“Thought you might.”

My face is burning and he’s massaging me so intensely my breathing turns ragged. The weed and the lotion and the touching and the flirting is getting to be too much. I like how his hands feel on me too much and now I’m sure he’s deliberately doing this to rile me up and fuck with me. I force myself to snap out of it. He has a girlfriend. Why is he doing this?

I pull away from him and put my sweatshirt back on.

“You know what, let’s just finish the cookies up now. I’m sure Vilde will forgive us for not letting the dough chill for a full fucking hour or whatever.”

I head straight to the kitchen get the wrapped-up dough out of the fridge. I slam the fridge door shut sort of without meaning to and noisily get out some baking trays, sort of slamming the cabinets, too. Ok, yes, I’m doing a lot of slamming.

Even follows me into the kitchen.

“Now what?” I say, a little harsher than I really mean to be.

“Um, we need to roll out the dough and cut it into shapes and that’s it. Here’s a rolling pin.”

We each take a clump and I start forcefully rolling it out, taking out a little of my frustration on the innocent dough. We don’t talk and I know I’m being bratty, but I’m fucking pissed at him, what can I say? Even hands me a cookie cutter and I start stabbing out the dough into star shapes. It’s kind of satisfying.

“I’m done with the special batch. I’ll put it on its own tray so we don’t mix them up,” he says.

I grunt in acknowledgment. We work in silence and fill up three trays. He places them in the oven and I stack up all the dirty measuring cups and mixing containers and bring them to the sink to start rinsing them.

“You don’t have to do that, we have a dish washer.”

“Whatever, it’s fine.”

“Ok. You wash and I’ll dry?”

I shrug noncommittally and he grabs a towel and stands next to me. I turn the water up to scalding and fill the sink with sudsy water. I don’t look at him and focus all my concentration on obliterating every particle of cookie dough from the dishes.

More silence as we wash and dry. The Miguel album is still playing, though, mocking me with its smooth sexiness. When we’re done he hands me a towel to dry my hands.

“Crap, I forgot about the icing. I can do that by myself though if you want to leave now.”

“Yeah I should probably go.” I start to head out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Isak?”

I turn around.

“You sure you don’t want to wait a few more minutes until the special cookies are done? Sorry if I overstepped back there. Won’t happen again.”

I allow myself to look at him. Really look at him. He looks like his abnormally and recklessly handsome self, but there’s a hint of something else around his eyes that I haven’t seen before. Some pain, maybe, or a self-doubt that he usually hides with ease.

I don’t actually want to leave, anyway.

“Yeah, ok.”

“Cool.”

His turns the full wattage of his smile on me and I’m weak, so weak.

“Want to play FIFA?” he asks.

“What about the frosting?”

“Ok, right. Frosting then FIFA?”

“Ok, fine.”

“Fantastic.”

“Fabulous,” I say, catching onto his game.

“Fun.”

“Ffff….fuck it, I can’t think of any more f words.”

“I win, then.”

“Yes, you win.”

“So I guess we have to dirty up all that stuff we just cleaned, huh?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

We get confectioners sugar, meringue powder and water and add it all together in the mixer. He decides to change the music, this time putting to Wu-Tang Clan’s _36 Chambers_.

I start cracking up.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just that we’re making royal icing for sugar cookies, listening to Wu-Tang. ODB is probably _rolling_ over in his grave. Rolling, get it?” I brandish a rolling pin at him.

He laughs at my terrible pun. “You mean hard hip-hop and baked goods don’t go together? I disagree.”

Then we both start rapping and fronting along to Bring Da Ruckus. It’s pretty ridiculous. He’s moving his hips and waving his hands up and down like a hype man. I’m bouncing around and smiling too much, I know, but I can’t help it with him.

“And here I thought you were a West Coast fan only,” he teases.

“No one can call themselves a hip-hop fan and not know _36 Chambers_. Who do you take me for?”

He’s rapping along and says the _on_ in _bring it on_ in that New York accent _awwwn_ way and it cracks me up all over again.

“Awwww shit. E-box be lit. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were raised on the mean streets on Staten Island.”

“I love New York City. Have you ever been?”

I shake my head no.

“I went with Sonja once. It’s amazing. So diverse. We’ll have to go one day.”

And there it is again, that whiplash feeling from euphoria to confusion and jealousy.

“You know what, I’m really hungry all of a sudden,” I change the subject.

“Want a snack?” he asks.

I nod.

“We could make toast? Or we have pretzels and some fruit and veggies and stuff.”

“Pretzels are fine.”

He pours some pretzels into a bowl for us. He dips one of his pretzels in the bowl of icing and I give him a quizzical look.

“What?” he asks.

“Blech. Pretzels and frosting? Really? Abomination.”

“No fucking way. It’s the best combination known to man. Try it.”

“No way.”

“Old man Valtersen, stuck in his ways yet again.”

“Some things are just not meant to be combined together.”

“Uh-uh, salty and sweet is the basis of all the most delicious foods. PB + J. Reese’s peanut butter cups. Salted caramel. I could go on and on.”

“Hmph.”

“Come on, try.”

He dips a pretzel in icing and holds it out to me.

“You won’t regret it.”

I look at him and make a snap second decision to take a step closer and take a bite right from the pretzel he’s holding in his hand. His fingers brush my lips and he looks genuinely surprised. Good.

I smile and chew and lick my lips. “You’re right. They do go well together.”

We look at each other, the air thick with possibility. I’m waiting for him to make a move, but maybe he’s waiting for me to do the same thing.

_Kiss me. Please. Just once. Just to see how well we could go together._

He looks at me and I look down at the floor. He shifts a little closer. For a second I’m sure he’s leaning down. His breath feels closer, but I can’t look at him.

“Isak,” he says.

Then the timer on the oven dings.

The moment is gone. He turns off the oven and puts on oven mitts to pull out the hot trays of cookies.

“We have to let these cool for a few minutes. Mmmm these smell so so good. Still want to try one?” he gestures toward the ‘special’ cookie tray.

I know that if I stay here and keep hanging out with him and eat pot cookies with him and listen to more music with him and keep hoping he’ll tease me and touch me and if he keeps looking at me with those ocean pools of his blue eyes I’ll just end up falling harder than I already am. I need to minimize the damage while I still can.

“Um, it’s a school night, I should probably go home soon and do some homework.”

“Ok. I can save them for your party tomorrow?”

“You’re coming?”

“Of course I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Is Sonja coming, too?”

He looks at me then down at the floor. The question hangs in the air.

“Isak, the thing you have to know about Sonja and I—“

“It’s ok, you don’t have to explain anything.”

And now there I go, staring at the floor like it’s a precious work of art.

“I want to explain, but…”

“It’s really ok. You don't have to explain yourself to me. I get it.”

“No, Isak, I don’t think you do.”

He takes a step closer. Then he’s kissing me.

Like, really kissing me. His lips are sweet and salty. I open my mouth and his tongue slides into mine and I’m burning from my cheeks all the way down to my toes. Our hands work in a frenzy of exploration. Every place his lips and hands find—my hair, cheeks, neck, arms, waist—ignites under his touch. Our chests and hips press into each other; inside me there’s tightness, a fever, a readiness, a waiting and a wanting to burst and burn.

If this is my only chance to kiss Even Bech Næsheim then fuck it, I’m going to make it count.

I turn off the part of my brain that worries about what kissing him like this means. I just let myself touch him and be touched. 

We kiss each other breathless in a room that smells like fresh baked cookies, melting butter and marijuana. It feels comforting and intoxicating, like Even himself. It feels like heartache and home.


	13. The Almost Coworkers Kiss // Isak 1st Person POV

_In this world, they kiss outside of Kaffebrenneriet_

* * *

It’s Sunday night and Eskild and I are in my room, sitting on my bed and idly scrolling through our phones. He’s 99.9% most likely cruising Grindr. I’m searching through facebook and Insta profiles of mutual friends/friends-of-friends-of-friends/3rd cousins once removed of anyone I know who goes or went to Bakka. If you have to ask me why I’m doing this, I will tell you, but it’s sort of excruciatingly embarrassing. And I’m trying to keep whatever remains of my dignity intact before I will openly admit that I am desperate for more intel on Even and Sonja and am resorting to the most crude of internet stalking techniques to find out anything I possibly can about them. But so far my digging around has only yielded some videos of Sonja performing (annoying well) in the Bakka Revue from 2015. Of course, she’s a triple threat.

“You know that Even guy, the tall hot one, who was here at the pregame on Friday?” Eskild asks me. Is he suddenly a mind reader, WTF? Did he use my phone and saw my search history? I turn my phone screen away from him. My pulse is racing but I keep my expression as blank and unperturbed as I possibly can. I throw in a little scowl for good measure.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Did you know he works at Kaffebrenneriet? He gave me a free coffee this afternoon and we chatted for a little bit. He seems really cool.”

“Which Kaffebrenneriet?”

“By HiOA, on Parkveien. I had a study group meeting there today. I don’t think he recognized me at first until I reminded him I’d been wearing a pink wig at the party.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He asked me about you, actually.”

“Really? What about me?” I’m wondering if the way my heart is beating so fast right now is actually life threatening. Could a 17-year-old die from a low key heart attack this casually?

“He just asked what it’s like living with you.”

“Well what did you tell him?”

“You know…that you’re a grump who never pays his rent on time and whose room smells like gross boy farts and that you’re a general pain in my oh-so-shapely ass.”

“You did not?!”

“Of course I did.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eskild!”

“What? Why are you screaming at me? I said all of that out of love.”

“You told him I smell like farts out of love. Really? And that makes sense how??”

“Relax, Isak. Wow, riled up much. I also said you’re secretly very sweet and I’m glad we’re roommates. There, happy now? He also asked about Noora coming back from London…he said he was here when she came home Friday. I had not been privy to that piece of information.”

He looks at me expectantly and my face feels like I decided to take a pleasure swim in a pool of lava.

“What? He was still here when she came back. What’s the big deal?”

“I just don’t know why you didn’t mention it when we had our roommates meeting yesterday.”

“Why does it matter? He only stayed for another like five minutes before he met up with everyone else at the revue thing.”

“Ok…”

I roll my eyes. “ _'Ok’_ what?”

“Ok nothing,” he says all innocent-like.

“That ‘ok’ didn’t sound like nothing.”

“What are you the _‘ok’_ police? Here, he gave me an extra punch card. Told me you could have it if you want.”

He pulls it out of his wallet and hands it to me. Two of the little coffee icons have already been punched out.

“You know I don’t drink coffee,” I say, flipping the card over a few times between my fingers.

“Well, maybe you should start.”

* * *

Later that night, my dad texts me:

 _Remember to wish mom a happy birthday tomorrow._  
_I think you should visit her. I can drive you?_

 _I don't have time_  
_Go yourself, you're the one who should be taking care of her_

_I understand you're busy. I can send her flowers from us._

_Ok_

_I'd like to have dinner with you next week?_

_Ok_  
_I still need rent money_

 _I know we’ve talked about this before, but I’d like you to reconsider getting a part time job._  
_I’m not in any way suggesting I can’t support you and I want you to continue to focus on your schoolwork._  
_But things have been a little tight since my work downsized._  
_I also think it would be good for you. Just food for thought._  
_I’ll let you know about details for the family dinner._  
_Hugs, Dad._

The texts do nothing but royally piss me off. But everything seems to royally piss me off when it comes to my dad. First he couldn’t even take care of Mom when she totally lost it. Now this bullshit about visiting her and family dinners (so he can lie to himself that we’re still a real family) and telling me to get a job.

I’m in the shittiest possible mood when I get a text message from Even. It’s a meme of a weird smiling guy holding up a plate that was in the background of a _Seinfeld_ episode. I don’t know what the hell he means by sending it to me but at least it makes me smile and takes my mind off my fucked-up family for a little while. Texting him now helps a little to soothe my hurt feelings that he blew me off this weekend. Then I start replaying for the thousandth time how it felt when his eyes burned through me when we were dancing while he was kissing Sonja and I was kissing Emma and then everything that happened (or didn’t happen) in the kitchen starts replaying in hi-def: how close his lips were to mine, his intoxicating beer-teakwood-tobacco smell, the heat pulsing off his body from under his white t-shirt. If I’d only had the guts to move half an inch closer, what would have happened then? I know what would have happened then and now I need to take a shower to calm myself down. I’m pissed at him even though I know that’s not fair. But I’m more pissed at myself.

In the shower, I get an idea. Even though it’s probably the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, at this point I could give two shits because I’m desperate.

Desperate and ready to look up how to apply for a job at Kaffebrenneriet.

* * *

It’s Monday morning and my locker is jammed shut, again. Because, of course it is. My locker hates me and the feeling is decidedly mutual. I’m trying to use my debit card to slide the jam open when I hear footsteps and the same low melodic voice that has been swimming through my head non-stop over the past 48 hours.

“Halla,” Even says.

“Hi,” I say. My voice cracks like a prepubescent 12-year-old. Because, of course it does.

“Are you going to the Halloween thing?” he gestures toward a flyer for the big Halloween party that’s happening this Friday.

“Eh, no. Or maybe. I don’t know. Are you?”

Listen, at one point I had game. I thought I was good at impersonating a kind of smooth idgaf fuckboy. But ever since I met Even I’ve proved how pathetically wrong I was to ever think I had anything remotely resembling game. I can barely form a coherent sentence around him, for Christ sake.

“Join me?” he says like it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Ok.”

Is he asking me out on a date? Is this actually happening?

“Ok. Want to pregame together? It seemed like Sonja and Emma got along really well. Want to invite Emma?”

The bubble of hope I’d felt just a second ago deflates like the saddest birthday balloon known to man. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Great.”

He punches my locker and it springs magically open (because, of course it does) and he heads down the hallway.

Before he gets too far, I remember last night’s (one of many) google searches. Fuck it.

“Hey, Even.”

He turns back around.

“My roommate Eskild said you work at Kaffebrenneriet? Close to HiOA?”

He nods and a little smile curves around his lips. “Yeah, we chatted a bit yesterday while I was working.”

“Yeah, he told me. Um…so my dad is kind of forcing me to get a job all of a sudden so I can afford rent. Do you know if they’re hiring?”

He looks surprised and then bites his lower lip thoughtfully (I register how badly I wish I could be biting his lip, too). “Well, you usually submit an application online and then a manager interviews you and assigns you to a specific location. But I happen to know that my branch is actually looking to fill a few shifts and you could probably speak to the manager directly if I put in a good word for you.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

“That would be amazing! Um…do you think I should still fill out the online form? Or can I fill out an application in person?”

“I’m working today after school, you could pick one up then.”

“Ok.”

“Have you ever worked in food service before?”

“Um…not exactly. No. Never.”

“Have you had a job before?”

“Soccer camp coach?”

“Ok. Hm. We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. My shift starts at 16:30. Meet me there?”

“Ok. Thanks.”

We smile at each other and he heads into the stairwell. My plan is working perfectly so far, if you ignore the small fact that I hate coffee and actually have no desire whatsoever to work at a coffee shop.

* * *

I'm standing outside Even's café reconsidering all my poor life choices that have led up to this moment. I consider bailing on this whole idea of applying for a barista job, but then I see Even behind the counter through the windows and my stomach and heart do a few cartwheels and round offs and I take a few breaths and go inside. Even smiles at me and waves me over to the side of the counter. He’s finishing up a drink order.

“Halla,” he says.

“Hi,” I say. No squeaky voice crack this time, so I consider that a win.

He looks so handsome and at ease in his work apron, flannel shirt and beanie (they must have employees wear them for hygienic reasons since the girl who’s also working is wearing one, too), I can tell already he must rake in mad tips here. He was practically made to inhabit the role of ‘insanely hot yet surprisingly approachable dreamboat barista’. I suddenly have no idea why I thought applying to work at a place just so I could be close to him would ever be a good idea. Forget trying to keep track of how many shots of espresso and how many pumps of diabetes in syrup form somebody might order…I get within two feet of him and I can barely concentrate on anything besides wanting to kiss him, everywhere and immediately.

He hands the customer their drink and says to me, “I got an application form for you.”

“Thanks. But I went ahead and found one online and filled it out already.”

“Alright, so you take initiative. That’s a very appealing quality in a potential employee.”

“Yup, that’s me. Mr. Initiative.”

I think that was my attempt to be flirtatious? But remember what I said earlier about my MIA game? He laughs, though, which is at least something.

“Ok, let’s take a look.”

“You’re going to read over my application? I thought you said the interview would be with a manager.”

“Well, you’re looking at one.”

“You’re the manager?”

“Well, not the branch manager. But I’m one of the shift managers. So that means I get to screen potential applicants and recommend ones I like.”

“Does that mean I’m a shoe in?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it means you definitely have a leg up on the competition.”

There’s a beat then he’s looking at me and smiling and then of course my mind goes straight to thinking _leg up=sex reference, right_? Did he just make a blatant pass at me? I feel the heat creeping all around my face and neck but thankfully he has to take care of a new customer so I have a second to get it together.

I pull out my application. It is, in truth, sadly and embarrassingly sparse.

_Education: Not yet completed high school._

_Previous employment: Soccer Stars Summer Camp Coach_ (2015 and 2016) _._

_Relevant skills: Multi-tasking._

_What do you like about coffee? N/A._

I should throw it away and bolt out of here before Even realizes what a farce this all really is.

He comes back over to my spot at the counter.

“Can I take a look?” he asks, pointing to my application.

“You know, I actually don’t know if this is a good idea. I feel really under qualified.”

“Everyone has to start somewhere, right?”

He picks up my application and glances it over. It takes him less than a minute to finish reading it.

He looks up at me, his lips in a cute semi-pucker and his eyebrows knitted together.

“That bad?”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

“Hm?”

“I think you can do better than this. Let me get you a new one.”

He grabs a blank application and a pen. “Ok, this question ‘Why do you want to work at Kaffebrenneriet?’ You said ‘Coffeeshops serve a useful purpose in society and seem like a fine place to earn an income.’ Really?”

I cringe then laugh. “Yeah, you’re right, that answer is pretty bad. What would you have said?”

“Something with a little more personality! You only have a few lines here to make a good impression.”

“Ok, yes. How about: ‘I would love to work at Kaffebrenneriet because I believe that each cup of coffee proudly served presents an opportunity for human connection and to provide legendary customer service’.

“Legendary? Wow. Nice touch.”

“Too much?”

“Nah, my boss will eat it up. Next: ‘What do you like about coffee?’ ‘N/A?’”

I shrug my shoulders, lift my hands and make a ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ face. “I’ve always been more of a soda drinker. I like drinks with bubbles.”

“So, there’s nothing you like about coffee at all?”

“I like when it’s served to me by a hot barista.”

Even laughs and we make eye contact. I meant at it as just a joke, but...is Even actually blushing? Maybe my game is making a fighting comeback. He turns his eyes back to the sheet of paper.

“That’s an excellent reason but probably not one you should admit to on your application. How about you put something like…‘I love the variety of rich and diverse flavor undertones in each sip _._ Whenever my day begins with a hot and invigorating cup of coffee, I know I’ll be ready to face whatever challenges the day ahead may bring.’”

“Ok, wow, it sounds like I’m about to propose marriage to my cup of coffee, but sure, whatever you say to land me this job.”

Even laughs and then has to take another customer’s drink order.

A few minutes later he comes back over. “Ok, next question. ‘Describe, in detail, a specific time you provided excellent customer service. Why was it effective?’ You said: 'I unfortunately have no experience to directly answer this question.' What about your job as a soccer coach?"

“Um, well, there was this one kid at soccer camp who hated it at the beginning and by the end of camp cried because he didn’t want it to be over. But it’s hard to condense how that happened into a few sentences.”

“What did you do to change the kid’s mind?”

“I just always encouraged him to try his best. And told him that everyone does things at their own pace, that he might be new to the sport and feel like the other kids were better or more experienced than him, but that’s not true because he was right where he was meant to be. And he’d get better if he practiced and didn’t give up. You know, Mr. Miyagi stuff like that.”

“Write down everything you just said. It’s perfect.”

“Really? Not too cheesy?”

“I told you, my manager will be crying by the end of reading your application.”

Once we're done revamping all my answers I realize I have no real reason to be hanging around anymore and I don't want to keep Even from his barista duties. But I don't want to leave either.

“So…Friday. Do you have a costume?” I ask.

“That’s kind of Sonja’s area. She’s like my personal event planner and I just have to go along with whatever she wants. What about you and Emma?”

“Um, same probably. Ok, well, I should probably go. Thanks for the help with the application. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll text my boss that it’s here. And hopefully she’ll get back to you in a few days if she wants to interview you.”

“Ok, cool. Well, see you at school, I guess.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

* * *

I don’t see Even at school the next day or the day after. But on Wednesday I get a voicemail from an unknown number. It’s Marthe, Even’s boss.

_“Hi Isak, this is Marthe, the manager from Kaffebrenneriet. I reviewed your application and spoke to Even, who spoke very highly of you and strongly recommended you for a job with us. I thought you had a strong application, but I’ll be honest, because you don’t have an employment history in the food and beverage service industry, I will not be able to hire you before I do a full observation of your customer service skills and aptitude. If you are free this Friday, you could come in for an interview with me followed by a short observational shift with us from 18:30-21:30. If that goes well I’d be more than happy to consider you for a further position. Let me know about Friday. Thanks.”_

He's actually managed to get me a job interview. But my plan to spend time with him has spectacularly backfired because now I have to cancel our pregame plans on Friday to go in for training for a job I’m still not sure I want. Not that I’ve been chomping at the bit with excitement since I realized the pregame would be a double-date night. I’m actually a little relieved now that I have an excuse to cancel on Emma. Yes, I know this makes me a bad person, you don’t have to tell me, I already know I’ve been stringing her along in this shitty way. But it’s like my immediate defense mechanism whenever I feel myself getting drawn closer to Even is to flirt with her instead and make her want me because I can’t have him. Fucked up, like I said.

So I call back Marthe and agree to come in on Friday for training. I text Even:

_Hey, thanks for putting in a good word for me at the coffee shop. I got a call from Marthe, I’m coming in on Fri for an interview and observational training. So I have to cancel our pregame. Sorry. But maybe I’ll still see you at the party? I’ll be done at 21:30._

_Ok, cool. I’m glad she called you back. No worries about the pregame._

_Any tips for how to impress Marthe?_

_Just be yourself :)_

 

I text Emma as well and let her know about the job and canceling the pregame. I say I promise to make it up to her and I’m looking forward to seeing her at the party. I know I shouldn’t do this to her but feel powerless to stop myself.

* * *

On Friday I show up at the coffee shop with a mixture of apprehension and dread. Then I get the shock of my life to see Even working behind the counter. Even’s going to be here while I get trained and try not to make an ass of myself.

“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too. One of my coworkers convinced me to swap shifts with her. She apparently needs a full three hours to prep for Halloween. She’s really into this whole body painting thing.”

“Hot.”

“If you still need a Halloween costume I can ask if she’d paint you?” He grins at me and yup, I’m blushing.

“Sonja didn’t mind? You working instead of going to the Halloween party, I mean?”

“This wasn’t up to her. Anyway, we’re going to meet up after I’m done. I’ll let Marthe know you’re here. She’s in the back.”

“Great.”

Marthe comes out with Even. She looks like she’s in her late 20s. She’s got raven black hair, gaged ears and a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm. She looks a little intimidating despite the fact that I’m about a foot taller than her. When she speaks, it is to the point and no-nonsense.

“Isak, nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand. “Let’s sit down.”

We sit at an empty table close to the bar. She has my application and a pen to take notes. She says, “So, as I said on my voicemail, since you’ve never worked as a barista before I need to know you’re up to the task before taking you on. I hope you understand.”

I nod. I’m suddenly more nervous than I thought I would be.

She continues. “So, it seems like your only employment has been as a soccer coach. Can you tell me a little bit about what that was like and how you showed leadership abilities in that job?”

Oh jeez.

“Um, well. I started playing soccer when I was a little kid and I really looked up to my coach. He was always really nice and supportive even if we lost a game. So, I thought I’d want to have a similar impact on kids, I guess. Make them feel like working and competing is fun and not a big deal if you win or lose.”

“And you think you can perform well under pressure? Things can get pretty hectic in here, especially during the rush times in the morning and when classes lets out, and we need team players.”

“I’m for sure a team player.”

“Ok, good. The main qualities we look for in employees here are: excellent customer service, managing stress and problem solving, teamwork skills and mental agility. And of course, knowing our drink recipes like the back of your hand. I don’t expect you to know the precise recipes off the bat, but do you have a basic working knowledge about what the differences are between a cappuccino, an americano, latté, epresso, macchiato, café au lait, mocha, frappuccino, cubano, cortado, and turkish coffee?”

Whelp. I was able to b.s. my way through the soccer coach question but I know if I lie to her now it would be incredibly stupid.

“Um, not exactly. No. Um, I’m pretty basic when it comes to coffee.”

“Do you like coffee?”

“Um…”

“It’s ok if you don’t. We have an extensive training program before you start making drinks. But it does help if you are already familiar with more than the basics.”

“No, sorry. I’m more of a soda guy.”

“Ok, noted. Today I wouldn’t have you make any drinks at all, anyway. Just get trained on taking orders and the computer system synced with the register. And see how you are with the customers. In that vein, can you tell me what you would do if a customer wasn’t happy with the coffee you made them?”

“Um, well are they being an asshole about it?”

She raises her eyebrows at me and I change tactics. “I mean, the customer is always right, right? I would say sorry and make them a new drink?”

“Ok. And if a friend came in, would you give them a free coffee?”

The real answer is definitely yes. “No?”

“Can you describe an experience where you felt stressed? How did you manage it?”

I’m wracking my brain for an instance where I handled stress well. Nothing is immediately hurtling to mind. My mom’s breakdown? My dad leaving? Can’t say I handled any of those particularly well. The only shining light was that I managed to maintain decent grades during all of that upheaval.

“Well, I had a sort of bad family situation in the last year. But I’ve kept a 5 average in all my classes.”

“That’s very commendable.” She smiles at me for the first time and I feel like maybe I’m not totally botching this whole thing after all. “Ok, a few more questions. Has a boss ever asked you to do something you didn’t want to do? How did you handle it?”

“Well, I can’t really think of anything from my soccer coaching that applies. But I live in a collective with three people and we all have to share bathroom cleaning duties if that’s the type of thing you're talking about.”

“That’s exactly the type of thing I’m talking about. All employees need to not only keep all of the beverage equipment meticulously clean but we all share cleaning and restocking duties as well. That includes the bathroom. Next question: what would you do if you saw a fellow employee take money from the register or stuff the tip jar?”

She levels me with her eyes and I suddenly feel like she’s peering into the moral fibers of my soul.

“Um, report it to the manager?”

“Great. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Ok, wasn’t expecting that question at all. Jesus Christ, I can barely think ahead to the next few weeks let alone next five years. I look up from the table to Even and realize he’s been in earshot of this whole interview. Our eyes lock briefly and he smiles encouragingly at me. Where do I see myself in five years? In my real life or my fantasy life? I know it’s stupid because we barely know each other, but if I could be anywhere in five years it would be happy and with someone who makes me feel the way Even does with just one of his smiles or glances.

I need to shake myself out of it and answer her question. “Do you mean career-wise or in my life in general?”

“Answer however you’d like.”

“Well, in five years I guess by then I’d be done with high school and at university. I’d like to study bio engineering, maybe. Or pre-med.”

“Very ambitious. What is a mistake you’ve learned from?”

Wow. I didn’t think this interview would get so personal. A recent mistake? More like, mistakes plural. I think about how I blew off my friends to hang out with Even two weeks ago and how I’ve been stringing along Emma. I think about being so pissed at my mom even though part of me knows it’s not her fault she’s the way she is. I still partially blame her for my dad leaving us, even though I know that is not fair. I think about how my anger at my dad has me seeing red even though he’s trying his best to weather a really hard situation. I think about how easy it is for me to numb myself and smoke away my real feelings. I think about how lying to myself has become second nature. I think about what Sana told me about hating people who fuck over their friends. How about people that fuck over themselves?

“Well, um. This is sort of embarrassing to admit. Maybe I’m screwing myself over by telling you this. But, a few weeks ago my friend was hosting a party and the cops came to break it up. I had on me let’s just say, a not quite legal substance. I hid it at my friend’s house. I didn’t really think about what would have happened to her if the cops found it. My other friend saw me and took it before the cops could find it. And later she called me out on what I did. It was really stupid and selfish of me. Not something a real friend or, um, team player would have done.”

“Ok, thanks for telling me. I hope you know we have a zero tolerance policy for anyone showing up stoned or drunk to work.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? What am I, fifty?” She laughs so I know she’s probably not actually insulted but my face is still burning bright red from embarrassment.

“Sorry. Yes, I understand. I would never show up to work high or anything like that.”

“Good. Ok, last question. Tell me about yourself. Who is Isak Valtersen?”

My head is swirling. Who am I? When did this job interview turn into a therapy session? I want to tell her…I have no fucking clue who I am. But then I look over at Even again. When I look at him, it’s like I’ve drunk some veritaserum from _Harry Potter_ (yes, I’ve read and love all of the _Harry Potters_ , ok?).

“Wow. Um that’s a tough question. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure who I am. A lot has been going on with me over the last year. And I don’t always like the person I’ve been turning into. But I want to be a good person, a hard working person and honest person. Someone who is happy and makes people happy, too.”

I want to look at Even again but I can’t. I’m a coward after all, it seems.

“Thanks, Isak. I appreciate your candor. Ok. So Friday nights are usually pretty busy but I think because there’s a lot of Halloween stuff going on tonight it will be pretty slow. You ready to get started?”

* * *

Marthe takes me behind the bar to begin the on-the-job portion of the interview and training. She then informs me that I’ll have to wear a hair net. AN ACTUAL HAIR NET. Because I didn’t bring a hat and apparently they are strict about hygiene protocol here. I want to point out that Marthe isn’t wearing a hat, but I bite my tongue. The full futility of my plan to try and notch up my cool factor with Even comes crashing down in a blaze of dorky hair net glory. I don’t think I’m a vain person usually, but the minute she tells me I need to wear a hair net I consider bolting out of the café right then and there to avoid my total and utter humiliation. I try to swallow my pride but Even still sees the look on my face.

“The one day I try to look respectable and not wear a snapback this happens,” I say, cringing as I put the hair net on.

“It looks cute on you.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying. You look friggin’ adorable.”

The next two hours pass in a blur.

Marthe speaks in a fast and clipped manner and I feel like an idiot having to ask her to repeat things to me over and over. We go over how to enter orders into the computerized register, how to do refunds, how to process a credit card vs cash and making change. I grind beans and clean the filter baskets and milk carafes for the espresso machines. I wipe down the milk and sugar station approximately 100 times (really, why do people seem to put the milk every damn place but their cup?). I bus tables (even though the café has a pretty obviously clearly marked bus station). I fill and run the dishwasher. I take out the garbage. I try to mask how much every customer with their froo-froo orders irks the living hell out of me.

None of this is at all sexy. The daydream I had of Even and I making innuendo-laden banter while our hands briefly and secretly touch as he flirtatiously shows me how to use the espresso machine does not happen. Instead, I’m nervous and sweaty and trying not to screw up or frown or curse in front of Marthe. Even is an amazing barista; really fast at making drinks, he doesn’t get rattled and he knows the usual drink orders of nearly everyone (I mean, everyone) who comes in. He has a fan club of uni students who have been having an extended study session the whole time I’m there and who, in my opinion, should keep their eyes more on their books and less on Even. I’m actually glad Marthe is keeping me so busy because it keeps me from having to compete with the gaggle of admirers for his attention.

At 21:00, the café closes. All the customers are out, thank god. I breathe a sigh of relief, but a little too soon. Because then Marthe starts going over the litany of things we need to do on the close down checklist: clean the coffee and espresso machines; disassemble/wash parts/clean cavity/reassemble/place coffee filter in tray/rinse; rinse/stock all syrup bottles/pumps/drizzle bottles/syrup holder; clean/sanitize/stock ice bin; wash milk pitchers/spoons/ice scoop/utensil holders; wipe down fridge/stock milk; wipe counters/cabinets; stock espresso beans; sweep/mop floors; clean sink; clean sanitizer buckets; turn off washer; take out trash; wipe down tables; collect used rags.

Even and I divide and conquer the cleaning duties. Marthe closes out the register and handles the evening’s receipts.

Since all the customers are gone, Even switches over the music from the pre-made and approved café playlist (lots of earnest acoustic covers of pop songs…blech) and now he syncs up his phone to the speakers and puts it on full blast while we clean. His playlist has Nas, NWA, WuTang, ODB, Dr Dre. We nod our heads and rap along as we mop and wipe together. We’re also smiling a lot at each other, too. We’re nearly through clean-up duties when an alarm goes off on Marthe’s phone.

She and Even look at each other with the biggest grins. Then they look at me.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you two smiling?”

“This is the mandatory dance break alarm,” Marthe explains.

“The what?”

“Even and I made up this tradition together. Every time we work together we take a dance break at 21:21 before our shift is done. No cleaning allowed for a few minutes to celebrate the end of a job well done. Since this is your first day, want to pick the song?”

“Is this for real? This isn’t some test like the 'would you rat someone out for stuffing the tip jar' question?”

“It’s totally for real. We gotta have a little fun, right? Oh. And you passed another test. You totally didn’t have to wear a hair net. You can take it off. That’s just a little hazing ritual for new employees on their first day.”

Marthe and Even smile at me. I should be pissed but I smile back at them, too.

“Jeez.” I tear off the hair net with flourish. “Wow I hate that thing with a passion. Even, why don’t you pick the song? My brain is fried.”

“Ok.”

Even picks a song on his phone.

At this point in reading this, I highly suggest you pause and kindly click this helpful link in a new tab to play the song he chooses while you read the next part.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9izCK98hkcU>

Sorry to break the 4th wall on you. It’s just that even if I were a Shakespeare-level writer I don’t think I could do justice to the moment with just my words. It’s better if you can listen, too. The best way I can describe it is that for the next 3 minutes and 23 seconds my life feels like a music video. When I lay dying, this is how I wish I could remember my life: underscored lushly by music and memory, flashes of imagery, the thrill of chills running down my arms and spine.

The bright fast piano chords come crashing in and I recognize the song. I’d only heard it once or twice before but Even knows all the words. He points at me and starts singing along. I’m impressed that he knows all of the lyrics, since they’re in English (and there’s a lot of them).

 _Hey, I hear the voice of a preacher from the back room_  
_Calling my name and I follow just to find you_  
_I trace the faith to a broken down television and put on the weather_  
_And I've trained myself to give up on the past 'cause_  
_I frozen time between hearses and caskets_  
_Lost control when I panicked at the acid test_

_I wanna get better_

He takes a step closer to me and starts singing directly to me, not breaking eye contact. He is expressive, using his hands and fingers and shoulders to embody the lyrics.

 _While my friends were getting high and chasing girls down parkway lines_  
_I was losing my mind 'cause the love, the love, the love, the love, the love_  
_That I gave wasted on a nice face_

 _In a blaze of fear I put a helmet on a helmet_  
_Counting seconds through the night and got carried away_  
_So now I'm standing on the overpass screaming at the cars,_

_Hey, I wanna get better!_

Now I recognize the chorus and start singing along, too. Marthe knows the words here, too, and we’re singing them as loud as we can in the empty café.

_I didn’t know I was lonely 'til I saw your face  
I wanna get better, better, better, better_

_I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change  
I wanna get better, better, better, better_

Even uses a mop handle like a microphone for the next part and he embodies everything a herky-jerky rock star should be. I start twirling dishrags around and unlocking the beat in my hips and shoulders. I can’t stop smiling when I look at him performing. I think, I could watch him dance and sing like this for the rest of my life.

 _I go up to my room and there's girls on the ceiling_  
_Cut out their pictures and I chase that feeling_  
_Of an eighteen year old who didn't know what loss was_  
_Now I'm a stranger_

 _And I miss the days of a life still permanent_  
_Mourn the years before I got carried away_  
_So now I'm staring at the interstate screaming at myself,_  
_Hey, I wanna get better!_

Now he leaps up onto a chair. I look at Marthe, afraid she’ll be pissed. But she smiles and does the same thing. So I do, too. My chair is close to Even’s. We reach out and grab hands.

 _I didn’t know I was lonely 'til I saw your face_  
_I wanna get better, better, better, better_

 _I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change_  
_I wanna get better, better, better, better_

 _Better 'cause I'm sleeping in the back of a taxi_  
_I'm screaming from my bedroom window_  
_Even if its gonna kill me_

When the guitar solo crescendos in, Even lets go of my hands and leaps from the chair to the floor, air guitar-ing spectacularly, rolling his head and neck around, eyes squeezed shut in emotive rock star ecstasy.

I jump off too and then we’re both standing, facing each other, hips touching. My arms have somehow ended up wrapped around his neck and his hands are tight around my waist, pulling me close. We’re swaying in time together to the music. His eyes are the brightest blue. His cheeks are flushed and pink. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly my entire life.

 _Woke up this morning early before my family_  
_From this dream where she was trying to show me_  
_How a life can move from the darkness_

_She said to get better_

_So I put a bullet where I shoulda put a helmet_  
_And I crash my car 'cause I wanna get carried away_  
_That's why I'm standing on the overpass screaming at myself_

Now we’re separated again and jumping up and down, pumping our arms and screaming.

_Hey, I wanna get better!_

_I didn’t know I was lonely 'til I saw your face  
I wanna get better, better, better, better_

_I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change  
I wanna get better, better, better, better_

We’re holding onto each other again and then the song ends abruptly. The silence in the café is a little jarring.

“Nice choice, Even,” Marthe says. “I really needed that. Ok, Isak, come to the back with me real quick and we’ll do a little post-mortem on today.”

I separate myself from Even, embarrassed all of a sudden. By the end of the song I’d basically forgotten Marthe was in the room with us.

We go back behind the bar and into a little office. My face is still flushed from dancing with Even.

“So, Isak, you did really well today. I think you’d make a good addition to our team. The only thing I will say is that since it’s pretty obvious you and Even are a thing please keep all coworker interactions strictly professional.”

“Um, sorry. No. We’re not. I mean. We’re not a thing.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well. That’s a surprise. I’ll amend what I just said, then. In the event that two coworkers start dating, we ask that you please keep your interactions strictly professional. I’ll be in touch with more information about scheduling your Coffee Masters training session. That is, if you think you’d still want a job here.”

I look at her. I double check that the door to her office is closed. “Actually, Marthe. Thanks for everything today, you seem like an awesome boss. But I only applied for this job since I like Even. I don’t actually like coffee at all. And I don’t like customers. Or cleaning. So I’m not sure if I’d be the best choice.”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. You’re a sweet kid. Good luck with everything.”

We get up and head back into the main café. She says, “Even, you and Isak can leave a little early since it’s the holiday and everything. I’ll finish closing on my own.”

“Really? Thanks Marthe.”

Even kisses her on the cheek and she unlocks the door to let us out and then it’s just the two of alone for the first time all night.

“You did a good job today,” Even says. “I think she’ll hire you for sure.”

“Thanks for all your help. But I don’t think I’m actually going to work here after all.”

“Why? What did she say in her office?”

“No, it’s just, I told her the truth about why I applied for a job.”

“Hm? You need to be able to pay your rent, you mean?”

“No, not that. I mean, yes, there’s that. But the real reason I wanted this job is because I was trying to make a move on one of the baristas.”

“You told her that?”

I nod.

He takes a step closer to me. “And which barista would that be?”

“No one you know.”

“Really?”

“Just this tall guy who looks really good in aprons.”

“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to working with you. I really liked you in a hair net.”

“Shut up. That wasn’t cool.”

“You looked cute, though.”

We’re smiling at each other and he’s just as close as he was in the kitchen. I want to kiss him. I don’t care that Marthe can probably see us through the windows. Or what people passing by on the street might think or say.

I don’t want to feel better or happy in five or ten years from now. I want that now. I want him now. My whole body is telling me, do this, don’t be scared, kiss him.

So I do. His lips are warm and taste like coffee. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Needless to say, neither of us ends up going to the Halloween party that night.

 


	14. The Art Club Kiss // Alternating 1st Person POV

_In this world, their first kiss is in the bathroom after art club_

* * *

_**i. Even** _

Apparently I’m the world’s most ineffectual stalker.

I’ve been at Nissen for over a month and in that time I’ve managed to establish that Blond Curls and I have the same lunch period and he tends to eat with the same group of friends every day but that’s as far as my spectacularly pathetic intel-gathering skills have gotten me.

Once, about a month after school had started, I tried following him after I saw him leave the courtyard when classes let out for the day. I know how that sounds! I’m not exactly proud of this. But I’d just finished binge watching _The Wire_ (brilliant show) and that nail biter of a scene where McNulty sends his two sons to ‘front-and-follow’ Stringer Bell through the market inspired me to give it a go. I figured, if two prepubescent boys (albeit fictional ones) could manage to case a drug kingpin mastermind (also fictional…), how hard could it be for me to try and glean just a scrap of info about a cute boy whose criminally kissable mouth, cherubic wispy curls and maddeningly defined cheekbones, jaw line, and collarbones I couldn’t seem to get out of my mind?

Turns out, ‘front-and-follow’ is a lot harder than it looks, especially when there’s only one of you doing the fronting and the following at the same time.

I was trailing about a half block behind him, with my earbuds in (trying to look casually engrossed in my phone while keeping an eye on him and not tripping over my absurdly long legs), and my heart almost exploded when he kneeled down to tie his shoe and then glanced back over his shoulder, looking straight at me. I couldn’t help but lock eyes with him, for just a fraction of a second. He looked at me with a little crinkle-crease between his eyebrows before continuing on to wait at the nearby tram stop. I guiltily ducked into a closeby coffee shop and that was the end of my fledgling career as a love struck PI.

I don’t know what had gotten into me, to be honest. I’m never like that (curious about someone to the point of creeperdom) and I’m usually pretty good at approaching people and making conversation. I guess I just wanted to inject a little excitement into my life and acting out one of my favorite scenes allowed me to get an adrenaline rush I couldn’t help but crave. ( “Couldn’t help” because once I get an idea to do something involving even the smallest amount of risk it’s really hard to stop myself). As far as my history of bad ideas goes, following Blond Curls for a few blocks wouldn’t even have made the Top 100 of Even’s Most Catastrophically Terrible Decisions That Seemed Like a Good Idea At The Time list. But it still felt wrong and a whole new level of desperation, even for me. Me, who had asked Sonja out via an actual singing telegram when we were 15. (Bet you didn’t know singing telegrams still actually exist, did you?).

I almost considered asking Sana about him since they’re in the same year and probably have some classes together, but I had to squash that terrible impulse. I didn’t want to give her any reason to worry about me or mention me to Elias and the guys. Not that she was the type to gossip—far from it—but still, I couldn’t take the risk, or burden her in any way.

The guys.

I still thought about Mikael more than I should have, more than was probably healthy, more than I let on to Sonja or my therapist or myself. I rationalized it because I only let myself think about him late at night. And I rarely thought of him in a sexual way or with the idea that I would finally answer his (many) concerned calls or texts. I usually just thought about his face, his smile, the video projects we did together, how easy it was to laugh with him, and left it at that. It wasn’t that I even _wanted_ to keep thinking about him; I _needed_ to keep thinking about him, even though I had buried that part of my life as completely as I could. It was a compulsion that both comforted and hurt me at the same time. And that ache was a feeling that I still craved, as self-destructive as that sounds.

As September turned into October, and I adjusted to my new routine and started making a few new friends, I was thinking about Mikael less and less and Blond Curls more and more. He was a puzzle; like a board game you find at a thrift store with all the pieces intact but the rulebook maddeningly missing. I wanted to play, I just wasn’t sure how. Or if he even _wanted_ to play, if he would let me play (on him? with him?). (I guess in this scenario he’s both the game board and a player simultaneously…but I still think the overall metaphor holds up).

So when fate rolled the dice and finally gifted me with an almost perfect opportunity to talk to him for the first time, I knew I had to take it.

To get involved with school activities and meet people, I’d joined Nissen’s extracurricular art club. We met a few times a month for recreational drawing and painting together (sort of like a ‘paint and sip’ class except without the sipping (officially)). When the weather was nice we met outside at a park to paint or sketch ‘en plein air’, but when the temperature started dropping we needed to move into a classroom.

For the first indoor drawing session, we needed to recruit artist models for figure drawing. The models wouldn’t have to be nude (it was a school sanctioned club after all), but wearing as little as possible was encouraged (for art!). I volunteered to canvas for models during my lunch period. I’d seen other groups go around trying to garner interest for their revue clubs, and I figured this might be my one and only shot to have a legitimate reason to speak with Blond Curls (and with any luck, convince him to strip down to his unmentionables (again, for art!)).

A peppy girl named Argentina is leader of the club—as far as I can tell she’s involved with almost every possible club on campus—and she volunteers to go around with me during lunch. The first day we go around together she’s wearing a jaunty red beret and black turtleneck, really pushing the ‘artiste’ vibe hard. She has a way of talking alarmingly fast, and I realize her technique for getting people’s attention is to catch them off guard and badger them into submission with her unbridled enthusiasm. It’s not the tactic I would have chosen, especially when it came to Blond Curls (I was guessing he’s more like a bunny you need to lure out of his hiding spot with a carrot and gentle petting and nuzzling, not by smashing in his entire den), and so for the next day I suggest to Argentina that we split up—so we can cover more ground and approach more people, of course.

As usual, he’s sitting at a table with his crew during lunch. I get out a clipboard and sign-up sheet, stick a pencil behind my ear, take a deep breath, roll back my shoulders and glide over to their spot.

“Halla,” I say. “Has anybody asked you guys yet if you’d like to get paid to take your clothes off?”

(If you’re asking me if I’d rehearsed that opening line, the answer is:  _No shit I rehearsed that opening line_ ). (And if you’re asking me if I delivered that line primarily for Blond Curls’ benefit, the answer would also be, unequivocally, _No shit that was 100% for his benefit)_.

Understandably, they all look warily confused and unsure if I’m crossing dangerously into “No Homo” territory (which, let’s face it…) so I immediately flash them (him) my most winning smile and say, “It’s okay, it’s okay, relax. Now that I’ve got your attention, my name is Even. I’m here as a representative for art club. We’re looking for some models for figure drawing this fall and winter. Semi-nudity is encouraged, but not required.” Blond Curls lifts his lovely green eyes to mine (so far so good!) and then immediately looks back down at the table (hmmph).

The energy among the group of friends shifts; they raise their eyebrows at each other, interest piqued, and the one I’ve dubbed ‘Sk8r Boi’ in my mind punches Blond Curls on the shoulder and says, “Isak, you should go for it, man. Could be a good way to meet chicks, show them what they’d be getting into before they get buyer’s remorse.”

Blond Curls (Isak!) shoots him what I’m sure he thinks is a dirty look but it just comes off as adorably miffed, like a kitten sprayed with a water bottle. The one I think of as ‘Chill Bro’ laughs and says, “Yeah they’d see how small his dick is and start running for the hills,” which causes Isak’s face to turn bright red (poor guy) and me to start immediately thinking about the size and proportion said dick (poor me). At the same time ‘Goofy Blond’ says to me, “For real? We’d get paid? To be naked? How much?”

I try and take control of the situation and focus. I deliver the shpiel: “Each modeling session pays $15 for two hours, which we understand isn’t much. But ideally there would be two models on site and you’d rotate so you wouldn’t be stuck in the same pose the whole time. And you’re not allowed to be fully nude, since this is a school club, but since the point is for us to practice figure drawing, if you’re comfortable with semi-nudity that would be ideal.”

‘Goofy Blond’ slaps the table with gusto, causing everyone to jump, and says, “I’m sold! Where can I sign up? I’m fucking broke.”

Everyone laughs and ‘Chill Bro’ says, “Magnus, dude, I think _you’d_ have to pay for everyone’s therapy sessions from having to look at your skinny white ass for two hours, not the other way around.”

This brings on a loud and jovial chorus of “Ohhh shiittt” and “Burn” from the others as Magnus looks at me with true concern and says, “They wouldn’t actually see my ass, right?”

I assure him that wearing a bathing suit or shorts would be in everyone’s best interest.

Isak says, “I’d like to see you get up there, Mahdi. Since you’ve been talking shit about everyone else. Or are you too chicken?”

“Chicken? Please. With this physique? Art club would be wanting to paint a whole new damn Sistine Chapel after they saw this.”

Everyone laughs, even Isak, and I try to get him to lock eyes with me. But he’s apparently decided he’d rather look just about every place else than at me, including his truly unappetizing and sad excuse for a sandwich.

I try again. “It’s not as easy as it sounds, guys. I’ve done art modeling before and it’s actually more challenging than you’d think. You have to hold each pose for a long time and it can get a little cold with no clothes on. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

That seems to impress them.

“You’re a professional model?” Magnus asks, wide-eyed.

“No, no, not at all. At Bakka—my old school—I did this type of thing for drawing class and modeled for a few student photography projects and fashion shows. It’s kind of fun. I’m planning to sign up for a shift for art club, here, too. I think any of you guys would be great at it, being so astonishingly attractive and all.” If that doesn’t manage to get his attention, I don’t know what will. He darts his eyes up to mine and nibbles on his lower lip. Then he’s back to the riveting sight of his blobby sandwich bun. At least from this downturned angle he’s given me ample opportunities to admire his lush and perfectly shaped eyelashes.

I figure I’d better wrap it up while I’m still ahead. “The sign-up sheets will be in the hall. The first figure drawing session is in two weeks, I think. Hope to see you guys there.”

I move toward the next group in the cafeteria, but I can’t help but sneak a peak back over my shoulder at him, hoping against hope he’s watching me walk away. Gotcha! I hold his gaze, daring him to break first. He breaks first. I turn my head back around, so he can’t see the huge idiotic smile spreading over my face.

The next day, I check the sign-up sheet. I see a few names, including ‘Magnus Fossbakken’, but no Isak.

I check the sheet every day that week, just in case, but it looks like I misread him; I hang my hopes up and put them back into storage.

Which is why it takes me totally by surprise when he turns up to art club’s first figure drawing meet-up, holding a pair of swim trunks and wearing an expression like he’d rather be any other place on the planet than here.

* * *

_**ii. Isak** _

Fucking Magnus. This is all his fault.

He texted me an hour ago frantically, saying that today was the day he’d signed up to art model but something with his mom came up and he needed to go home right after school and could I do it instead so that Argentina girl wouldn’t hound him down. He’d even brought a bathing suit I could borrow. He’d already asked Jonas and Mahdi but Jonas was going to the skate park and Mahdi had tutoring.

So here I am. About to take my clothes off for a bunch of art nerds (including the most attractive art nerd I’ve ever seen in my whole life).

He approaches me. I try not to let it show on my face how much every muscle in my body is painfully aware of his presence.

“Halla, Isak, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Even,” he says.

“Yeah, I remember you from the cafeteria,” I say. I also remember him from every time I’ve had to tear my eyes away from him in the courtyard, the hallways, leaving gym class, in the student lounge, and the time I thought we were walking to the same tram stop and might have a reason to talk finally. But that is all Isak-only highly classified information.

“I didn’t know you’d signed up to model.”

“I didn’t. My friend Magnus did but he had to bail. So he asked me to step in for him.”

“Lucky us, then.”

How does he do it? Manage to make my cheeks feel like they’ve just got intimately acquainted with a flamethrower with just three words and an arch of an eyebrow.

Argentina comes up to me and says, “Isak, Magnus just texted me, thanks for stepping in for him. Have you modeled before?”

I shake my head no. “Ok, no problem. Here’s a robe for you to wear between poses so you don’t get cold. Even here is going to be the other model today, you’ll switch off with him, okay? First pose you'll be seated on that stool there in the middle of the room and we’ll rotate you around so everyone can get a few angles. We’ll have you hold each pose for about five minutes then switch. Once you’re changed we’ll get started, okay?” She turns her attention to the art club members. “Does anyone have a music playlist we can put on? There are speakers we can plug a phone into there.”

I turn back to Even. “You’re modeling, too?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Any pro tips?”

“Just try not to get self-conscious knowing that dozens of eyes are meticulously obsessing over your body.”

“Oh great, thanks for the confidence booster.”

“Sorry,” he says and we both laugh. “Seriously, it’s actually a little boring. Just try not to fidget and you’ll be perfect. It’s not every day that we get to sketch someone with such fine bone structure as yours so we’re the ones getting the good end of the deal here.”

Fuck me, ‘fine bone structure’?

I head to the bathroom to change into Magnus’ swimsuit, praying that the unthinkable doesn’t happen and I end up with an obvious boner in front of the whole art club.

* * *

_**iii. Even** _

I hope I didn’t just scare him off with that whole bone structure line. Was that too obvious? I just couldn’t resist.

I get my sketchpad and various pencils and ink situated on an easel. I mindlessly flip through my old sketches while I wait. I’ve been trying to come up with a series of depictions of mental illness but looking at them now they just seem so obvious. A monster on your back. A scratched-out scribbly mess instead of a face. A shattered mirror. I flip forward to a page of doodles instead: I count at least 20 dicks. Jesus. I flip forward to a blank page, hoping no one saw the drawing over my shoulder.

* * *

_**iv. Isak** _

Art modeling is definitely weird.

The first pose is pretty simple. I’m just sitting on a stool with my hands resting on my knees. Doesn’t sound too difficult, right? Except that every time I move even the slightest bit, to scratch my nose or roll my shoulders back, I feel like a criminal. I sneeze once and feel the need to apologize to everyone! And with nothing to do, no phone to distract me or even a book to read, all I can do is stare into space (or stare at all the people staring at me, which I’d rather not do) so I try closing my eyes. But then Argentina asks me to keep them open since “eyes are the window to the soul” and all that nonsense.

My thoughts go something like this:

 _My toe itches._  
_Even is looking at me right now. Like really looking._  
_Don’t look at him. Pick something on the wall to look at instead._  
_The wall is really boring._  
_I wonder if people will notice and draw my bacne. God, how humiliating._  
_Why did I let Magnus talk me into this? Fucking Magnus._  
_I can’t believe I’ve only been sitting here for five minutes._  
_The next two hours are going to feel like an eternity._  
_Is Even looking at me more intensely than the rest of the art kids are?_  
_The way he’s biting his lips in concentration. Fuck._  
_Don’t look at his lips or eyes, look at his hands instead._  
_If I was drawing Even I’d start with his hands._  
_His fingers are so long and graceful._  
_Don’t think about his hands and fingers stroking you._  
_DO. NOT. THINK. ABOUT. THAT._  
_I can’t tell if I have to pee now or not._  
_I think my brain just thinks I have to pee to ward off a boner._  
_Don’t think about the word ‘boner’ that won’t help anything._  
_Boner-killer thoughts: serial killers, slugs, moldy fruit, Donald Trump._  
_Boner catastrophe averted._  
_I’ll just sit here and listen to the music instead._  
_No thinking about Even._  
_No looking at Even._  
_I’m looking at Even._  
_He’s looking at me._  
_My body is on fire._  
_I hope he never stops looking at me._

Argentina instructs me a few times to rotate my stool around to change up everyone’s viewing angle, so eventually I’m no longer facing Even (a huge relief and crushing disappointment). Then it’s time for standing poses. The first one seems pretty simple. I’m recreating Michelangelo’s _David_ , with my weight on one leg and one arm curled toward my shoulder. After five minutes of this my muscles are actually starting to burn a little, which surprises me since I thought I was pretty fit! My mind starts drifting, thinking about ancient sculptures. Why are the guys’ dicks so small in them? Did dicks evolve over the course of human history to get bigger? Or are the statue dicks just normal size and I’ve gotten a skewed expectation from all the porn I’ve watched? New topic. No porn and no dick thoughts are allowed to keep infiltrating my brain. I look at the clock. Still 15 minutes left until Even takes over and I can take a rest. Then I break into a cold sweat because it hits me that I’m going to have nothing to do but sit and stare at him while he models semi-clothed, since I don’t draw, and if I look at him for that long there’s no way I’ll be able to keep the looming threat of a boner at bay. I’ll face away from him the whole time and do my homework instead. Problem solved.

* * *

  _ **v. Even**_

I can’t believe how lucky I am to have been gifted the opportunity to study Isak’s perfect body and face without having to feel like a creep doing it.

My normal drawing style tends to be comic-inspired and cartoonish, but for him I strive for realism. I want to capture all the fine details: the exact angle of his elf-like upturned nose (16 degrees, give or take), his long philtrum and delicate oval basin above his upper lip, his pouty cupid’s bow lips, the raindrop cleft in his chin, his Adam’s apple that bobs up and down each time he swallows, the contour of his cheekbones, the feathery fringe of his eyelashes, his wispy crown of golden curls. And that’s just his face. Don’t get me started on his body. The angular planes of his chest and stomach make me feel a little light-headed as I sketch. People always describe men’s muscles as hard, but that’s not entirely true. His muscles are defined but still _fleshy_ , alive; with each intake and discharge of breath I wish more and more that my pen was my hands and instead of drawing him I could be running my fingers down every inch of his body, taking in all the details in a fully sensory three-dimensional experience.

I throw mental ice water on myself. I’m up next for modeling and need to get a grip.

I don’t try and make eye contact with him on purpose (at first) since I don’t want to make him feel more self-conscious than he probably already is. But it happens (more than a few times) despite my resolution to stop us from competing against each other in the Eye-Fucking Olympics. Each time we lock eyes: spark plugs, shock waves, shivers, fireworks, you name it. I’m a pyro for the way he lights me up, for the ripple of taut incandescent pleasure that shoots through me when I sense his eyes searching out mine and I return his gaze. An open secret.

When Isak’s first round is up, the group takes a break and I go to the bathroom to change into my shorts.  
  
When I come back, I see that he’s found an unoccupied corner desk in the classroom and he’s facing away from the circle of easels; he’s got a textbook and notebooks out, engrossed in his homework.

I take my place in the center of the room and swallow the hard knot of disappointment when he doesn’t look at me once the whole time I’m modeling.

I get through a half hour of posing, but my body feels the opposite of graceful, like I’ve got dead twisted tree branches for limbs. Argentina asks me to recreate _The Thinker_ , and the slumped-shouldered posture suits my mood perfectly. I think and I think and I think and until I say ‘enough’, and turn off my brain entirely.

We take another quick break. Argentina asks Isak to come and rejoin the group and then asks if we wouldn’t mind finishing up with some poses together.

“What type of poses?” he asks, clearly panicking.

“A few interactive ones, as long as you’re both okay with it? And we’ll only have you hold each pose for five minutes max, this will be like speed sketching. That sound okay?”

“Fine with me,” I say.

I look at him, sure he’ll say no.

“Yeah, ok, no problem.”

(!!!)

Argentina instructs us to pose like we’re fighting. We do a little awkward shuffle before we find a pose we think we can hold for a few minutes. One of my legs is bent and I’ve got my palms flat on the his bare chest, like I’m about to push him away (as if I’d ever do that).

We look into each other’s eyes and if I could I’d throw him down to the floor in front of everyone and straddle him and kiss him all over his god damn beautiful body.

I notice that both of our chests begin to rise and fall a little more than they probably should, considering this isn’t a very arduous pose to hold.

“You okay?” I ask, after a minute or two, real quiet, so he’s the only one who hears me.

“Never better,” he says, and flashes me a smile that turns my already quivering muscles into jelly.

Next pose, she asks one of us to sit on the stool and the other to stand behind and put a hand on the seated person’s shoulder.

“I just had a long break while you were modeling alone, so I’ll stand for this,” he says.

We situate into the pose. His hand on my shoulder feels white-hot, like he’s a superhero who could burn through my skin with just one touch. After a minute, I begin to feel the pressure of his hand increase ever so slightly. The gentlest possible massage. Or message. I roll my shoulders back, encouragingly, hoping he’ll read from my body’s signals that I’d willingly be putty in his hands.

Next pose she asks us to sit cross-legged on the floor, back-to-back, so our spines are supporting each other. I feel rooted and without realizing it we end up breathing in sync.

We do a few more simple poses and then she asks us to hug. I see Isak tense up.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to,” I say.

“No, it’s fine.”

“If it feels too weird we’ll just pick a new pose.”

We try hugging and it’s immediately too awkward and way too intimate. I suggest a variation. I stand behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, clasping my hands together in front of his heart. I make sure to leave a few inches between the front of my body and the back of his. I can’t risk what would happen if I fit my hips snuggly against the curve of his back and ass, as badly as I want to.

I ask him, “Is this okay?”

He nods.

Since I’ve got a few inches on him, I have to stoop down slightly to bring our faces close together, still careful about not getting too close. But I take the opportunity to breathe in the scent of his hair and skin like I’m inhaling the smell of fresh baked bread after a day of fasting.

Then, without warning, he shifts his body weight so he’s pressing into me like we're puzzle pieces fitting together, the chaste inches I’d been sure to keep as a buffer between us completely eliminated. I take a sharp intake of breath.

I remember the last time I felt a boy’s body this close to mine and then I need to focus on breathing deeply to keep the rising surge of panic down.

_Mikael and I used to touch like this sometimes. But it meant something different to him than it did to me. Kissing Mikael was a mistake. But that doesn’t mean that these feelings are wrong._

I try to stay totally, perfectly still. I try to stop my breath, stop my thoughts.

I need to break out of the pose. But I’m too late. He must feel it already.

“Sorry Argentina, this is really straining my shoulder,” I say, releasing us. “Can we do a different pose?”

“That’s the last one, actually. You guys worked great together! Thanks!”

I hastily put on my robe, grab my clothes and make a beeline for the bathroom.

* * *

**vi. Isak**

I shouldn’t have done that, pressed into him like that. I fucked up. Badly. Did I accidentally sexually harass him? I need to go apologize. I’ve never been so humiliated.

I grab my clothes and follow him to the bathroom.

I change into my clothes, exit my stall and see his feet sticking out under the other stall door.

“Hey, Even, are you in here? It’s Isak.”

I hear him exhale. The door opens, he comes out. His face is masklike, unreadable.

“I’m sorry about back there…that last pose, that was…I just hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable or anything.”

He looks at me for a long time in silence. I feel my cheeks burn from gut-level embarrassment and I turn away from him, make for the door as fast as I can.

“Wait, Isak.” He takes a step toward me. “I wasn’t uncomfortable. I mean, being that close to you. That was…just unexpected.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You didn’t?” His eyes search mine. “That’s sort of…disappointing.” Then he shoots his eyebrow up in a perfect arc. His eyes flit quickly down to my lips and my pulse goes pedal to the medal. "I mean...I liked it." He takes another step toward me and I’m a fucking firebird, a goddamn phoenix rising from the goddamn ashes.

* * *

_**vii. Even** _

I can’t stop staring at his lips. I'm going to do it. I can't believe I’m about to kiss him for the first time in a school bathroom. Should I break away, get my head on straight, wait for a more romantic setting? For a first date at least? This is not how I pictured it for our first time. Does he actually want me to kiss him right here, right now?

* * *

_**viii. Isak** _

If he doesn’t kiss me right now in this ugly ass bathroom I’m going to spontaneously combust.

* * *

_**ix. Even** _

I’m breathing so hard it’s like I just finished a triathlon then sprinted away from a hungry jaguar.

He wets his lower lip with his tongue and I can't wait a second more.

Waiting is a terrible terrible idea.

* * *

_**x. Isak** _

He kisses me and I actually do combust.  
  
The kiss is messy, uncertain, searching, searing, perfect.

I kiss him like I'm trying to figure out how I've gone so long, spent my life so far,  _without_ kissing him. 

Which is another way of saying: it’s the kiss I’ve been waiting my whole life for.

* * *

  _ **xi. Even**_

I didn’t know it could be like this.

And now that I know, one thing is for certain: nothing will ever be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, I think this is the end for this series! I'm gonna hang it up so I can work on some other writing projects. Thanks everyone for reading and commenting, it's meant the world! xoxoxo


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